I want my words
To be like weeds,
Grass,
And Trees

Sprouting up from forgotten seeds,
Through the abandoned halls and walls
Of horribly boring buildings,
That are:
metal shiny rusted clean.

Rising through
Cruel Factories,
Cutting, dry
Research facilities,
Corrupt courthouses
and sacrilgious churches,
Making them all new
And true,
Turned uneven
And strange
By my
Eye.

A church of the earth
I will form
From my words.
My motto:
Burn all arrogance
On a stake.
Then sleep in the wood,
Be strong,
With weak knees,
And dream, dream
Your dark beautiful dreams
And keep the empty
away,
retain sanity.

A breath of what was before,
Growing over the new,
Making both
Simple and pure
In my own
Odd way.

We'll turn those old words true,
As they never were,
But should have been.