by Jonathan Hunter-Kilmer
the slow descent of blindness
as the body to the grave
and overwhelmed by kindness
that revolving door
to save
as in the flesh and out the soul
leave hurt and hate behind
throw in the dirt
that mortal is
the time of earth will wind
I see Your face more clearly now
and dig I never will
but scatter me
my soul is free
on wings You made
and spill
air need not carry
as by You
I'm tossed from hand to hand
and caught and tossed again
in luscious air forever land
the dirt some may throw on the place
I really never was
my eyes, my core
is naught but toward
Your beckoning op'd hands
the crimson stream that spears the air
and thick and warm swells high
I soar and spin, impale myself
on You with eager cry
