Declivitous nights in worry fraught
Like Russian dolls encased in paints that coat, protect and shelter from storms
Yet only sit upon a shelf collecting thoughts and taunts and dust
Oh take me, wrap me in your refuge…whether chancel or bima be
The place that guides your heart to know the inmost thoughts, the light I throw.

Unyielding night in paper spent
That tears and crinkles in my grasp
That knows no secrets, spills no ink
Would that I found the thoughts belonging
To your empty, hopeless , mocking sheaths
Emerging inflourescence nods
And black dwarves swallow thoughts unborn
The light of prophecy has gone out.