Compact the tacticle run,
The span of worlds accordion
Into such little bricks,
What joy and horror to the ancients,
All epics and the grandest plays,
Decend in flock an audience of one.

Pearly teeth unspotless cleaned,
To shine a dying flashlight on the world,
Pale china hosting willy yellow flowers,
Not an image of decay but simply stain.

My resting place in mountain halls,
By pillars of deep basalt weeping,
Tears of love a mingled magma,
My hiding place and fortress rock,
O Lord my God my resting place,
My portion now and never gone,
Far further than the crust falls still,
Far further than the mountains fold,
Far further than the valleys and the seas roll up,
You will remain farther than the rocks,
And you have given me rest.

Hard pressed,
For poems don't seem to flow from a tap,
But grow even whilst I nap,
For such good gifts only fall from His lap,
Into mine and all thoughts and rhymes,
Are a blessing divine,
And I'm left grateful,
That poems came again,
That we carved them out together.