I'm trying
So damn hard to find my voice
On a stage, amongst others who speak
So clearly so eloquently I'm astounded
And upstaged and afraid and pitied
By only myself

I can't be the only one
Who listens to the songs of the wavering
Lodge pole pines that dance so sweetly
One after another in a lingering breeze
You can tell by their rhythm midst constant winds

I can hear the hearts of the shrubs
Who's elegant fingers twitch remotely
To a tune of internal xylophones
Fanfares and trumpets guide rooks
Their wings like helicopter rotors in perfect time

Oh the magic, and the muse, the harmony of stone
And the snow which dresses them in purity year after year
Seasons come and go and relinquish fears of a second redemption
Because the third and fourth have long since passed etching away
Their memories deeply in the face of nearly eternal stone towers
We drink their tears as they puddle, babble and stream in the clearing

Clear me O God of thunder and torrent
This boundless rage this unceasing discord that
Girds me like a tightie fitting pair of whities
Stifling me and emasculating me, gelding me into privacy and mistimed solitude
The one that keeps me silent in the midst of your word
Parts of me beg you for proof of the promise

Cut those down with your drums of thunder and impassioned lightning
Whatever passion that burns in this heart of mine
Will only find it's true power and feriosity in the place where your word
Sticks to bone and swallows flesh alive
The place where its real, the place where I begin to be
The place where you have always been and are

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