I don’t even want you
I’ve forgotten the warmth
It’s flown, and I am here. Alone.
And my own plans go up and down
As you watch

You see me
You know me
And I just keep on walking

Then I glance back
Something made me
You made me glance
So I look and there you are
With all the same forgiveness as ever
All the same love as ever
Half grinning for me seeing you
Half crying for the cobblestone between us
And here I respond

Here I crumble in your arms
Here I keep on walking



I have allowed to my former master:
Skirted his courts, looked inside.
Pledged never to enter, but found myself caught.
Now, leaving, I fear he has ambushed my mind,
Hollowed my soul.

Stumbling and reeling on my own two feet
I remember the Other, more compassionate One,
Whose pure Fountain had washed the old life away.
Stubborn and twisted, unforgivable, I remember.

Though I pant for cool water from my sweet Master's cup
To purge my heart and quench my shame,
My feet take me around to where the contrast is less
So my impurities won't muddy His pure Fountain.

I peer in at the depth -and the height- of All Love
Exclaim in my soul how I'd long to be free,
Denying the hope that He'd love me once more,
And go on my way with a sad aftertaste.

Under a rock, in the rain of my tears,
I hear a voice, strong but concerned,
Calling me out, claiming the Fountain,
Its power to save.

I answer, objecting; citing my filth.
Saying nothing -no-one- could cleanse me and live
My filth would ruin, destroy, and disease.
The Fount, pure as diamonds, would stain and grow stale.

My Master replied, all wisdom and grace:
"Son, return to your Master, and he will clean you.
His Fount he would stain, so that you can be free.
Drink of the Fountain, taste until you are full.
I am jealous for you, that you might live."



The prayer of a righteous man avails much.

Then what, Lord, of mine?
I need a steady vigil to even know right from wrong.
What of my prayer?
Is it forgotten? Pushed aside?

Where's my prayer, Father?
Has it risen to your ears,
Or did it die upon release,
Crumble in my hands?

You see, that prayer was my weakest;
My flesh can't afford much more,
And I want to make sure it got there
Without being put out on the way.

If my faith is what carries it,
Then it's sure to have fallen already.
If love was the messenger,
He, too, would trip along the way.

See, it's for these things the prayer was for,
And if it depends on them, 
Then I'm shooting broken arrows
While aiming for the Sun.