sometimes, when you run out of words, it`s o.k. to use others.
"God is Love and Love is real, but the dead are dancing with the dead and though all that`s charming disappears all things lovely only hurt my head as I gather stones from fields like pearls of water on my fingers` ends and wrap them up in boxes, safe from windows, from things that break, as the night-time shined like day it saw my sorry face, hair a mess but it liked me best that way (besides, how else could I confess? When I looked down like if to pray, well I was looking down her dress...)
Good God, Please! Catch for us the foxes in the vineyard- the little foxes.
Turn your ear, musician, to silence because they only come out when it`s quiet, their tails brushing over your eyelids- wake up, sleeper, and rise from the dead! Or the fur that they shed will cover your bed in a delicate orange-ish cinnamon red, Ah, I don`t need this!
I have my loves, I have my doubts. I don`t need this."
my inability to love others as Jesus would have me is my meager attempt to fill a vacuous hole with a half-hearted truth.