Wine and Words

There are better friends than wine or words. (Although they sometimes suffice.) You drink your vice and I'll write mine. But at the end of the night, The walls we build only grow stronger, as Time--- the subtle thief that you are--- borrows hours of our life we'll never find. In the name of freedom, and through clenched jaw we hold to independence. And yet, as we proudly shout these words, they morph into larger-than-life characters we now crouch behind. Love is not an imposition and friendship is not just a minor inconvenience to the other party. Now whiskey... whiskey is the lonely man's liquor we all must drink at times, But wine--- wine is meant to be shared, as are these words. Because without lips to pass through, both wine and words lack the luster for which they were intended. So yes, drink your wine and whiskey combined and I'll write my words in between these cold covers.

Heart of Granite (I Lift My Eyes Up)

Will you rend this heart of granite? Will you captivate this stone? will you mend this heart so broken? Make it yours and yours alone. Will you be all that I need, God? Will you be my friend and guide? Will you let me cry and let me laugh? Will you never leave my side? Will you climb this mountain with me? Will you show me where to start? Will you hold my hand, help me understand, to know your own true heart? Will you help unfold these wings, God? Will you help unfurl this soul? Will you set me free, will you walk with me, Will you be my only hope. I lift my eyes up to you, O Lord, for you are where my help comes from. You do not slumber, you do not sleep, my feet are planted on the Rock. I lift my hands up to you, O Lord, for you are where my heart belongs. You do not slumber, you do not sleep, my feet are planted on the Rock.

i am nightingale

it's just before the dawn, a day that lingers in expectation a little too long for this barely beating heart it's cadence slow, seems to stop but it's not. Instead it beats painfully long each rhythm needlepointed hammers pounding away as this once tender heart is pricked a million times and then pretends to become calloused. But shouldn't things hurt less with a tough exterior? or is this shell just slowly suffocating the life now locked inside? a nightingale tries to sing in the darkness before this never arriving dawn but the sadness of her silent soul seeps out in her breath when the song stops. falling to the silent ground perpetually falling in a cosmic thud a body beaten lifeless. But again, shouldn't this stop hurting after so much abuse? To die but here is the lie about death. Death is not a ceasing to hurt but rather the hurt just becomes deeper, a sustained whole note stretches beyond its 4 beat expectation. i am a wounded nightingale sitting in a tree. i saw you clinging to the branch next to me today. i want jesus to heal me, to heal you my friend. to take me down from this broken branch and cradle me in his gentle hand. this is my prayer. this is my song.