Oh the crystal grass and more outside blue,
So round and full impress upon the mind,
And so in drops of preformed ink,
Crushed down into a heady-scented page,
A brilliant man makes busy the inner sight,
He talks long and sideways in so real a speech,
Down through the winding ducts of culture,
Through a shelf and hands and heady-scented page,
Reaching one who walks gingerly upon his dreams.

Shiny pots and pans,
All things that clang,
To bash a meal together,
To toss up food in any weather,
I'll feed the rain my steamy breath,
The sunshine puffs of great meals' deaths!

Still no word of a poem,
And the sparse turns to few,
The words tumble out,
And I order them anew.

Blanket rain fall heavy in the dark,
Yet quiet whispers meet my weary ears,
For rain falls like the bore to deepest earth,
And I sit in castles up above their cries,
They water plants and drench the flies,
Yet I am warmed, my soul a mottled hearth,
By fire so glorious I know it's name.

Midnight crow out open in the day,
Your nightshade feathers shaped and cut,
Redeemed! Obsidian in the morning light,
They glimmer as you sway,

Children of the luminescence,
You and I are clothed in might,
Not of our own,
But known in amber rays,

For darkness was our chains,
Now as gemstones on our skin,
For shadows cannot hide from Him,
He'll clothe us just the same.

Governing the flames within the sky,
A gentle wind tugs chords of plasma,
Rocking them to sleep in circles,
Singing elliptic lullabies,
They sleep in fields of black asway,
Comfort at the Logos' refrain.

Why should they fear His voice of reason?
Why should they fear His loving tug?