From where I sit the days are split,
The thorns unevenly tied.
Fields that are fresh and darkly lit,
With raging thunder at my side.
The darkness born to sin and scorn,
To mock a fevered brow.
As I lay upright praying that God can save us now.
He raised the beds
He scattered the sheds that lay on gardener’s grounds.
A playful thing,
An illicit king
A musician of unrequited sounds.
If he made blood curdle beneath his skin,
He has boiled us up from the outside to in.
We are no longer a shadow of the divine.
We are the projected products of the living design.