Friendship
at the Church
A
little church sits on the end
of
the road,
face
forward towards the rolling hills.
The
rolling hills are like green water,
that
stop and move against the sun.
Over
light, over darkness, the thing
breathes,
and
sunshine sparkles like dew.
Some
friends go and some friends come;
but
in the deepness, the green grass grew.
Like
flowers, I pour the darkness from my
hands,
and
the old church bell chimes.
I
am the nothingness that is in your mind,
I
am a weathered vine.
All
hope is through.
The
church is painted white, like a ghost;
the
bell shimmers bright like a silver host.
The
anger moves vast like a wave of sea,
in
it is you and me.
Follow
like sorrow, the night that grew,
in
it, hope waves like time anew.
Sometimes,
we forget to pretend,
that
all things are the same.
And
the church still stands at the end
of
the old road with the forgotten name.
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