to be without falter,
a beacon without wain,
resolution in a world of faults lines eager for collapse--

are we meant for such steady hands?
such arrogance to a land heavy in shadows?
mystery that what was once set to love betrays us,
our feeble hands looking to grasp such things in quake...

we are tender imperfections starved for glory,
empty unto ourselves, desperate and traitorous,
crazed for some method to feel whole and deserving
for gracious endowments by some savior yet to be won...

we are angels in the flesh, unbelieving,
convinced of our own demise and content
to bring all else with us

but eternity sings her song, her waining song,
her faltering song that fades in looming tithes--
"leave your soul to their unrest! leave the soul to starve!
leave the soul to burn! leave it in eagerness! so it may
join my refrain in ecstatic emphasis, to find its
glory within my resonance!"

and so we are empty to be fulfilled and are, yes,
lost to be found and even more,
without confidence to be adorn with such blazing mystery,
such glaring mystery,
such illusive mystery!