upon breathless rest my soothed soul seeks
the thunder the distance reveres
a passions plea by bitter blue moon
dance gently, the winds weep still
grace, as per prayer, the silence groans
the deaf dead din of dawn
blessed by bane, not cursed of vein
blood dries upon silk smooth stone
gargoyles prey by downcast eyes
the praying prey pine in pew
dust settles upon, within, without
the knowledge being none the wiser
by guess the gift God gave takes not
receive now that which held
great breaths now take
the stride comes long
the thunder
it calls
again.






-J.G. Smith (11/08/06)