What is there to be said

When all the pictures have been painted, when

wordsmiths more skilled have woven better phrases

Who am I, who am I?
Sometimes overcome by Christ's curious effect upon the soul;

grace, I believe is the beautiful word, grace sinking downn like

cloud-gathered sighs, on a world ready for relief.

Catch me up, tangle me in webs of worldly things, pretty, panic-inducing, putrid -

Satan. You may increase your injunctions, if I fall further

into the depths of Christ, but silence and misery alone are your lot.

If not the sanguine sacrifice has been so violently made, slain...

My brothers yet young, and I so inside myself-centered, would have been

Snapped at the ankles, Achilles heel, by your bear-teeth snares.

Why do I write then, BIC pen upon paper

torn from the spiral of shabby notebooks lined in blue.

What good have my words then, done to the world

that they may be anything, next to the Word, You?

A line for the fish, a scent to the hound, a clue to the 
Mystery of where You are found - these do I wish

to make my poor poems.

A gift and an arrow

pointing straight, to lead someone (if merely one, it is enough!) home.