Upon this rock my church is built.
I worship in the quiet times
at dusk and dawn until my guilt
requires the penance of my rhymes.
Out on the sea I speak with God
who sometimes answers me in verse,
and tries His best my will to prod
to understand the universe.
Peeling away the layers
of an onion, of a life,
working toward the center,
feeling with my knife.
Sometimes overcome by tears,
often overwrought with fears,
the tissues parting through the years
unveil the mind, reveal the sign.
Blinding light, the darkness nears.
Taking flight, so God appears.
Moving with a head of steam,
gathering in the endless miles,
seeking something to applaud.
Is there a semblance of a dream,
a meaning that these tears redeem,
something more than friendless smiles
to help in understanding God,
to justify the trails I've trod.