the best of words
have no sound
no limits
on the soul
sink with fearsome ink
into the skin

to lie against
the living
stories we have been
cold
when comes
the night to grieve
again

sunday hymns
we honor still
play in ancient dreams
lives are passed –
it seems no time
at all

let
and I’ll be waiting
here
beneath each tender line
with eager pen
tho not a word
be mine

. . .