Sacrament

Sacrament

I pray at an invisible temple;

Bow my head to an invisible God.

I arise with the mist

Of my lover’s first kiss.

Lift my head from a pillow of fog.

I work fast as I can at what I know,

Turn the blades of the fan and watch them go.

Will all the work get done?

Or do I turn and run?

Better ask that dead guy in the back row.

Cause it’s too late, too late, to turn it back.

It’s too late, too late, to turn it back.

Clock only winds in one direction,

If you’re late, you’ll never make that one connection.

Too late, too too late,

To turn it back.

I pray at an invisible temple;

Bow my head to an invisible God.

I arise with the mist

Of my lover’s first kiss.

Lift my head from a pillow of fog.

So next time you go on a mission,

Better roll up your sleeves and tuck your shirt.

Else you will soon unearth

Confirmation of your birth;

A long way from home, covered in the dirt.

Cause it’s too late, too late, to turn it back.

It’s too late, too late, to turn it back.

Clock only winds in one direction,

If you’re late, you’ll never make that one connection.

Too late, too too late,

To turn it back.

Ghosts of Apparent Lies

Day, brother, turns into night.

This ancient creek thickens and foams,

Flowing on among boulders of a life;

Bearing witness to places I roam.

Ghosts of apparent lies visit me almost every night;

To the point, I am unable to hide.

Friends I once had, stand no longer in light.

The past, moments in time, now pushed aside.

Once gone,
What went before me has never much been.

Rail yard whistles blow.

Yet, I am deaf once they go.

Time is a faith as good as dumb sin.

Who made up the plot which haunts me?

In January, palms and thighs were mellow,

Followed by kisses, colder than December snow.

Coming Home

Oh, daughter of green crest and rising mist,

Let there be one with whom I share this kiss.

For, with the marking of time at season’s end,

There is little fight left in my soul to defend.

On shore wedged between river and sea,

I spy the smooth outline there waiting for me.

Oil lanterns blush echoes off waves,

As my rising chest heaves like the ship’s sodden staves.

Look there as we round the spithead and quay,

My eyes lock to the one who is there but for me.

Dimmed lights of Warfleet, Southtown, and above,

Cast a glow of devotion on the one that I love.

The Wisest Run

The wisest run is the way of error.

For with the pale view of the waning moon,

My tidy path through time is quenched too soon.

Passing clouds bid no study of my fear.

Wishing so hard to find a second peer,

I occupy a place of confusion.

This maze, but a stage to an empty room

Where I, the veiled actor, stifles a tear.

Take me home now, having traveled the night.

From unknown lands where unknown ways hold fast,

I sail this treacherous crossing with calm.

Faith, my tiller, gains hold of reason’s sight.

Chance tenders to season the life’s compass;

And fate, the vivid artwork, is my balm.