Composing symphonies for anyone who is barely awake
Gazing into the pool of blackness by their bedside
Touching the night with their fingers
Stroking the soft skin of their moistness
Licking at the salt on the finger tip
Sighing with loneliness
Whether they sleep alone or not
Sometimes at times like this I am amazed at my breathing
and the way that it just keeps keeping on
When I turn what I am doing into another person
Doing what I am doing
There is nothing profound in this
Just lost shadows fighting for illusion
and illusion fighting to be mystery
What if the “ministry of the church” is just a spelling mistake
and it is really the “mystery of the church”
That would fill the pews on sunday