As your bloodied head hangs, fallen low
as the setting sun casts its final daylight towards you,
we who have heard your last cry heavenward rush into the darkness.
On our turning away, we look upon dimmed reflections of each other
hoping to remember where you have gone,
as if your last breathe was with a glance upon your own corpse, instead.
To whom can we turn as a full moon rises?
The sanctuary veil is torn, and in our lunacy
we put to siege the walls around our own treasury.
The gaurd tower falls confusing our tongues
And the stones of the steps are shaken about the cornerstone–
that solitary gaurd of the keys to the keep’s throne room.
Sin makes men worship curvatus in se.
A vigil in the wilderness pleads, “Make straight the way!”
At Bridal Veil Falls, Yosemite National Park
Were I to write of what I look upon,
the ink would smear upon a dampened page,
the focal point would be obscured by mist,
and every rivers’s flowing would be this.
I’d write to you of searching for the source
somewhere before the falling from the cliff
above my craning neck with which I look
toward the ledge, the falls, and sky beyond.
Through mist, behind the falls must be some sight
more precious than my eye can yet behold,
so beautiful that, were the veil to rise
impressing in my eye the face beyond
the waters falling from their source like tears,
I’d realize whose veil I looked upon.
In the beginning was He Who IS Love,
And He laid down His creation.
He entered into His creation,
And He laid down for His creation.
His creation pierced Him,
And He overflowed.
My Dearest Wendy
Pay no mind to man-made lights–
Nada te turbe amid your night.
We walk by Faith and not by sight.
Second star to the right
And listen until morning.
In the Name
above every name,