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As I Strain to Silence

Faces look my way.
Against the grain,
I walk down isles of bold stained glass.
Someday old, the winter comes.

Defeat me, deep vibrant colors. Soothe me, aged, holy craft..
Music, steal me from my time's absorption.
Among the crowd, the violin and harp,
bow and ordered beat release me.

Brown hair turns unheard to white.
A gentle hand in mine,
I listen for a quieted heart.
Though I strain toward silence, the music never stops.

© Brenneman T. February 3, 2004

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Scratches on Their Noses

There are no souls in paradise
without scratches on their noses.
Heaven rakes random as a roll of dice.
Life sends more thorns than roses.

My sands sift through the sive of time
before the sun to noon arises.
I pray projections on the God of mine
as if he were offering different prizes.

A day in hell is offered up
to mitigate the bet.
Before I refused to take the cup,
I found hate dry, love wet.

© Brenneman T. February 22, 2004

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