In the way

I would like to stop,

I would like to be still.

But my hands don't seem to quit, and my mind sets the moment rushing along, as a gorged river under a bridge.

Just to relax and eavesdrop,

Stay and listen to the numinous silence, and allow it to move my quill.

But the static sounds of the day that I have made refuse to quiet, and terrorize the ink as a vengeful witch.

On and on I strive to watch newly forming dewdrops,

with all peace and goodwill.

But I allow unsatiable distractions to dump into the empty spaces, blinding me with the beautiful decay, an unrelenting downpour of false riches.

Should I ever surrender to the strength of each crimson drop,

to turn my eyes towards Calvary's hill,

I would discover I know as much about God as I am not in the way of.