How does one
Articulate such a vast
Expanse of thoughts, memories,
When one's words are whittled
To a sharp pencil tip,
And the roses have not yet bloomed,
And the city has not yet awakened?
How must one fill their cup
When the water will not run?
There is but one blunt dagger,
And it was He who
Stabbed my silly flesh--
Rotting and coy.
It was He who fed me words
That I'd never known
Because it was He who
Demolished my apathy
Until there was nothing for me to do
But care and care and care
And hold my fingers over an open flame.
And just when I thought
He could give me no more, He
Slapped my hands away from His face
And begged God to take Him home.