my solitude.

Lord, you have ruined evil
you have loved
before. Before.
And we are in love
with the tv
with love. With love.
With something that stinks
reeks like love
it reeks. It stinks.

In pieces go all our loves
to prostitutes and whores
who we do not know come sticky morningtime
when the sheets are pulled up off'
the corners of the bed.
And the walls are a chalky white
and i can't convince myself I'm me
but its my eyes that are red.

Lord, you make the morning
you rise with the sun,
you will. You will.
Your skill is subtle
to cut into damage
with sword. The sword!
And i am just myself
looking and waiting,
another. For us.

To gather all our loves into
a broken body, a spilled-out blood.
blood soaked into the dirt at the cross
is the sponge for what i've spilled.
is glue between lives.
and my solitude is no loss
when it is of one piece
with the God who died.