over these past few seasons
i've grown a trifle curious...
inquisitive as to where you would lead us
if even you could, or would deign to
pick us up from our darkest
hold us up with arms
stronger than that 64 inch frame
frailer than the frosting
poised inches over the hills to the north
praise our words
praise them because of the secrets,
because of the secrets they hold,
for the meanings they imply
the inclination towards text is startling
the acclimation to seating ourselves
at the opposite ends of something that we've created
out of some childish fear of self-realization
and dedication to something that we didn't quite understand
jesus christ, my lady, can we please go home?