Thursday, December 17, 2009


Do I write,
or does God write
using my hand?

Arcs of lightening,
claps of thunder,
God's pleased with Herself.

I take your hand,
you touch my soul,
instantly I'm free.

Labels and names
I seem to forget,
can I call you Soul?

Rich man in mansion,
poor man in hovel,
both prisoners of the mind.

Once you're free,
mansion or hovel,
it doesn't really matter.