
Worship & Waves

Faith, Health, and Other Musings
May our minds flourish with creation, and may our hands never deny its expression.
She pulls me
gently
down a well-worn path,
littered with ferns and old letters,
and brings me to
a flowery clearing.
“This is always where they leave,”
she says,
indicating the barren field.
“Yes,” I say,
“this is it.”
“This is what?”
“This is a perfect place
to build a home.”
Breathing heavy,
I wait for light to leave the sky –
longing for your nighttime spell
a brutal, tortured tongue-tie.
You haunt me with your drawling voice
dark and yet unseen,
you disturb my foolish, failing heart
and call it Halloween.
Since the moment
I found you,
I have only encountered
two kinds of people:
you
and those who aren’t you.
____________
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Poetry is for the living,
but death
is what grants it meaning,
making time so fleeting
and love so precious
that even poetry
can scarcely
touch it.
Even if you’ve never
traveled beyond borders,
if you’ve entered
the open arms of love
or eclipsed the lighted end
of despair’s underpass,
you’ve seen
the most exotic things
this life offers.
Is something
beautiful
because it is
unexamined —
mysterious, unique, untouched —
or is it
the exploration,
the unearthing of layers,
that makes a thing so radiant?
But how
do you
give an
appetite
even
to my eyes?
-L.M.G.
my chest echoes
with the cries of my monster,
devoting anything that’s not you,
to a psychopath’s slaughter;
the monster in me
has a single-point view:
the only thing it wants
is the monster in you.
-L.M.G.