Almost halfway done already. Wow… that’s hard to believe. This week’s poems ended up being a lot deeper than I expected, which is weird but also kind of cool. They were also harder to write than last week; I don’t really know why. And I was going to post this a couple days ago, but I forgot. Because I was reading Mistborn. So yeah. Anyway, here you go. Enjoy!
I dreamed the stars fell down to earth
In fiery forms of purest white,
And piercing through the clouds and mist
They danced their ancient dance all night.
I dreamed the sun stepped from the sky,
Streaked down in glory from the clouds,
And as the light fell on our hearts,
No longer mist could be their shroud.
I dreamed of comets’ flaming tails
As all the heavens began to rend,
And everything we thought we knew
Already had begun to end.
I woke to gentle morning light,
And heard a noise out in the street.
The carpenter was passing by;
Soon it would be Passover week.
The whispers carried
To where she stood
On the fringe of reality,
Edge of the world;
Like a lighthouse shining
In the surf,
On the fringe of the seen,
At the edge of the earth.
She gazed ahead,
And let them curse,
On the fringe of eternity,
Edge of the earth.
I guess when you look at me all that you see
Are all the achievements, all the victories.
And you think that I’m perfect.
Well I know that I always seem to have the right answer,
Never say the wrong thing, no, not even a chance; and
So you call me perfect.
But then you weren’t there, and you didn’t see
The failure of all that I thought I could be.
Don’t think that I’m perfect.
And you’re never there late at night in the dark,
Haven’t met all the gleaming gold gods of my heart.
So don’t call me perfect.
You think that I have it all together – I don’t.
I’m foolish and weak, afraid of being alone.
I’ll never be perfect.
And I don’t want to lose, I can’t say I don’t care,
But perfection’s a burden too heavy to bear,
And I just can’t be perfect.
But I look to the cross where His perfect blood spilled,
And lay down my burdens on Calvary hill.
In Him I am perfect.
An old wooden fence stretches up
Into the swirling mist
That glows with morning sun
And lurks in tree-lined shadows.
The hawk swoops down
And lands with fearless wings,
Its piercing eye gazing down,
The cardinal flutters
Through the shadows,
A tiny scarlet flame,
Burning and singing in the mists.
And for just one moment
They both sit there
On that old wooden fence
Before they fly away.