when tender mercies
mourn above forgotten mornings,
with sand beneath the alabaster dreams,
how few the sounds are of unsung old memories,
unworthy on the parchment of what seems, to be
just shallow echoes of some senses,
long buried in my bloody battlefields.

they're all Moriahs,
all my hills and mountains,
with stairs cut deep into my soul; and mine's
the treasure, mine the earnings
of every bloody, barren mine.

---------------------------------------------

a spark still lights
the hearth of my heart's flame-place;
small, angel-like,
not mine but Thine.
surreal, timeless, poured and broken,
like every Sunday's bread and wine...