When I stacked Bugles on fingertips
When I stacked Bugles on fingertips,
bounding on beds throwing fits,
birthdays were for me with presents not weapons
against demons, how fulfilling was fun? back then
when I played to play–for I must–
’till time was told by dusk,
when chimney smoke and riding bikes were fall,
no note of the girls dressed half as tall,
before I knew what all my parts where suppose to do
and realized I could easily live in a rue,
before wrist watches rubbed my thigh
and never took the first reply to my “Why?”
Holy Taint
Burnt from both fingertips to the heart,
Ruined by their Redeemer and
Scared by a Savior,
Yearning for the nail print
Ask and ye shall. . . .
Dangerous with passion,
Empowered with promise,
Striving to follow the forsaken fisher of men.