Little bolts of passion hearty red,
Thin bare exposed and tussled in the gusts,
In sight the lurch cerulean on gold,
All the leaves are glass the ground so stained,
This frightful glory makes a weaker man,
How it all transcends, o how!
How it all becomes so thick and I so thin!

Bearing storms that swirl ahead,
Retreating to absurder heights within,
Heavenly galleries amidst the clouds,
Their pillars quaking at the roaring tide,
That mocks its weight to dance,
Between the clouds and hurry strength,
Pursuing stalling air to motivate,
A passionate descent.

I didn't have a poem,
But He called me then to pray,
Lord craft in me a poem,
Lord teach me what to say,

For I am like a desert,
That forgets its very thirst,
He'll show in me my needs,
And meet them ever first,

For I'll walk with him tomorrow,
Just as I have today,
And learn to not forget,
My need, my want, my love.