The unkempt self, a swirl and
Dangerous wisp that plays pretend,
Sits nicely in neat clothes,
Talks nicely in neat words,

Until displeased with its own thought,
Displeased with its poor joke, it churns.
A veil that seethes upon the inward face,
Close breaking storm within the skull,

Less violent though more tense and still,
Like dull aches sparking upon pain,
Long weary sighs which hollowing,
Leave long pauses for an anti-self,

Oh what need I have for Thee!
Firm rock to break upon and mend anew,
To come with rage and leave with grace,
Know comfort and the very hope which spurred my Lord to death,

That I would become His and not my own,
My self would deeply hidden in His life,
Unshaken stand to follow Him to death,
Then through its belly to eternal joy.

A walk beside fenced rolling grass,
Old village houses and their twinkling glass,
A pebbled path away to depths of civility,
To hidden lodges lambasted by their shrubbery,
I never see the people of these houses,
Perhaps one day they'll stand in sight -
Neat shirt all tucked and blouses.
An image that can't help but be,
So different from the bare reality.

Crack of dawn and sat in sun,
Amongst a read out pronunciation,
Like turning waves upon the shore,
Arriving and receeding between the gaps of speech,
Hashing out the sand like clear thoughts.

Hot day,
I'm a puddle on the floor,
Melted from a walk by burning tarmac,
The sun straight vertical overhead,
Leaving shadows shrivelled under,
And I set out for more,
Getting back to the body is worth the rays.