His arrow has pierced these hands.

My life is full of empty things;
so much so that His footsteps resound
as He sidesteps His way through
tone deaf love and
graffiti-littered tombstones

like unbridled morning glories braid their way
through fence posts and tree bark
so does He choke out the sunlight from
the roots of my once admired, though now dying
fruit trees.

And I lay in the potter's field and
wait for the inevitable
sunrise.

Whatever is honourable

A small portion of the poem The Sacrafice by George Herbert:

Now heal thy self, Physician; now come down.
Alas! I did so, when I left my crown
And fathers smile for you, to feel his frown:
Was ever grief like mine?

In healing not my self, there doth consist
All that salvation, which ye now resist;
Your safetie in my sicknesse doth subsist:
Was ever grief like mine?

Betwixt two theeves I spend my utmost breath,
As he that for some robberie suffereth.
Alas! what have I stollen from you? Death.
Was ever grief like mine?

Those before me have explained me best.

-what does it all come down to? love? Love
if you like and i like,for the reason that i
hate people and lean out of this window is love,love
and the reason that i laugh and breathe is oh love and the reason
that i do not fall into this street is love.
-e.e. cummings

Just don't jump too high, frail girl.

I have been half in love with easeful Death,
Called him soft names in many a mused rhyme,
To take into the air my quiet breath
-John Keats, Ode To A Nightingale


I have to change my perspective.