The bell, that once rang out so loud and clear,
is cracked and silent; still we gather 'round,
for thund'rous is the hush we've come to hear
and wakens echoes that do still resound,
if only in our hearts, of liberty.

I lay me down to sleep tonight, and deep
regret and mourning fill my weary soul
with longing for the watch I cannot keep;
I taste the merest part of my life's whole.

Oblivion's brink looms near; I pause in fear.
It matters not if be a blank abyss,
or if be dreams whose course I cannot steer;
Each night, though dim, reflects death's somber kiss.

Yet sleep I must, if in the morn I'd rise,
and wide awake, with newly opened eyes,
would watch the rosy dawn spread o'er the skies.
My heart awaits the answer to it's cries

when wakened by the trumpet and made whole,
I'll rise as light of morning fills my soul.

The precious death wells up from depths below,
the sunshine of a thousand summers bright,
distilled in fluid blackness, and the glow
is from these deeps that guides my pen tonight.

For starlight leaves in darkness what is near;
the dancing worlds across the milky way
illuminate the season and the year,
but theirs is not the nearer light of day.

And so in darkest deeps we seek the sun,
to kindle freshly whensoe'er we choose.
Though stars their unchanged courses ever run,
we now select what rhythms we may use.

But this the price our our eternal day;
The further light of stars has gone away.

The golden death, it shimmers on the sea;
Too brilliant, radiant rainbows seal the vow
That not by water, but by fire, will be
The final end, as hell leaks even now.

And even now, the long forgotten dead
Are rising, soulless and unstoppable.
Their masters have gained powers great and dread,
But now they taste those wrathful pow'rs in full.

The fires of hell they've loosed upon the earth;
Their bodies and their tools now feed the flames,
With nothing left to stop this strange rebirth,
For things there are on earth that no man tames.

And so it was, when wisdom's fruit we ate,
We grew in skill too soon, and truth too late.

Ezekiel

The blood of silence pounds within my ears,
And yet my lips are sealed as living scrolls,
As I, unworthy wait these silent years;
the word burns in my mouth as living coals.

I dwell amid the dry and scattered bones,
Waiting to exhale the word of life.
But sealed the word, and sealed my own heart's groans,
And sealed the grave, the bones of my own wife.

I know these scattered bones will rise again,
Together gathered, enfleshed alive and new.
But now there is the waiting until then,
The terror of the vision clear and true;

Waiting with the weight of words unspoken,
Waiting in the silence still unbroken.

Ode to a Tea Bag

The tea bag blomps about my steaming cup,
It puffs with air, balloonly bouncy light,
Flits brief below, then quickly floats back up;
I leave it in until my tea's just right.
Sometimes I add a bit of something sweet,
Sometimes I add a bit of something sour.
Sometimes I drink it simple, plain and neat,
And sip another cup with each new hour.
I wish I'd something quite profound to say,
Some bit of wit more deep than steeping tea.
But maybe thoughts of tea will show the way,
For it's in seeing that we learn to see,
And thoughts are puffy things, and airy light,
Dip down below before they come up right.

Mara

She came to stave off just a few short days
Fulfillment of decay that had begun
Some several thousand years ago, and lays
Deep buried at the core of everyone.
She came with bitter spices rare and sweet,
To offer one last service to her Lord,
To give His death the honor due and meet.
She came, her heart sore pierced as with a sword.
A flaming sword, when angels cleared the way,
And death itself lay slain before her feet,
On this the dawning third and sacred day,
Bewildered until He Himself would greet
Her by her name of bitterness and pain,
Now raised to joy with Christ her Lord once slain.