Pen and paper brewing,
Becomes obtuse and blackens,
Its still and so painfully wakeful,
Stirring but folds fog upon fog,
Until scattering the light to dimmer motes,
A task to be lengthily tolerated,
Culminating in an empty cup,
Fuller thought piercing to the rounded edge.

Travel by the street lamps fierce,
Through their white and saffron glows,
Deep into shadows, concrete folds,
Lightly over leaves and pebbles low,
Away away, I walk away,
Through darkened streets and shadows stray,
To stand in light and sing His praise,
With my people here in foreign lands.