Some kind of clarity at last,
Like shivers from the depth of sleep,
The burning kisses of the sun,
That crawl out of an evening haze,
So weary and refreshed at once,
So warm its breaking into cold,
The path away in sharpened sight,
That takes a toll in drops of blood,
Though I am lighter with the wounds,
I shall remain when they turn swiftly gone.

The flicker of the flame,
Stands square on wicks wilting,
Throwing fire and passion to the walls,
Like flailed gestures to a balance,

A point marked in light,
Ever rolling into empty dark,
Ever bowing into pointed streaks,
Ever painting into deeper suns,

Some layered hues,
Arrayed in deepened harmony,
Marching roses to their daffodils,
Soon ruffled in the wind.

A boisterous crackle,
In a moment of unstable lurching,
In a moment placing down its brush,
In a moment humming to the flowers in the wind.

Praise the author of salvation,
The poet of all days,
He doesn't leave a story unfinished,
Not even halfway done He says,
And even when the story throws us,
And the twisting turns don't go our ways,
He's working for our good for sure,
As we are His and He is ours.