Stolen Song

Stand in empty hands and water trickles down. He chuckles as he manages to get a rouse.

Though a blanket of sovereignty's always been on scene, all that's explicit is the pains of robbery.

Silent and transposed he triumphantly walks away. Confused and frustrated she is told to stay.

Later on she questions why would you let it go? Quietly answered you may never know.

Wrestling with why's only point away from plan. Knowing that all goodness comes from one man.

She can rely on him when things don't figure out. He will use this to destroy darkness in the doubt.

Tracing back to power and his authority.

There is nothing rugged opposition could ever do to me.

Restless Child

I want to be a wild bird that wanders with spread wing.I want to be held closely and hear gentle whispers sing.

Feet thumping loudly the stairs creak beneath. 

My heart aches for adventure, but my mind seeks comfort still. My lungs crave the mountain tops, but my bones never will.

Her lip sticks out proudly in an act of defiance.

Dancing under stars. Dreams with too high of bars.

Eyes flutter wildly seeking a distraction.

Tell me yes or tell me no. Give me the answers that I want to know.

She hears her name tenderly echo in the hall. 

I'm a restless child seeking out her place. Cautiously proceeding to maintain a happy face.

Legs wiggle impatiently for her momma to arrive.

I test out murky waters wondering what's true. Understanding Knowledge is never who will woo.

Her lungs deeply exhale as the door begins to crack.

The fact I have breath is a gift in itself. The world trying to decieve my picture of wealth.

Posture caves inwardly, she ignores a shifted room. 

A walking contradiction I feel what I don't desire. Trying to remind myself Emotion can be a liar.

Grumbling passively her voice says go away.

To write I can explain. To speak my stomach wanes.

Nose smells cautiously the aroma of a cake.

Under the cover I attempted to hide - An invisible lump to myself I lied.

Her tongue independently making her arise.

You stripped off the security a blanket provides. But before I could form a single chill your refuge abides.

Arms embrace tenderly reunited mom and child. 

Relentless intercession knocks me out at night. Dark circles show I put a fight.

Her hair gently brushed from her puffed up, leaking face. 

As a child I would whine that it's not fair. He had to watch his Son whipped bare.

Kissed softly on the forehead, affection exchanged for baseless rage.

Unmerited grace I found by staring at what's true. Inside the silent valley, a shadow of Glory I already knew.

Cake forgotten quickly, she yearns to simply be with mom. 

A naughty babe I once was, but now I hold his hand. A covenant so memorable that it doesn't need a band.

Far Away

I run away, but there's no where to run. Everywhere I go - he is there.

I have a joy, though I'm not content. I have peace, but lingering resent.

I can't rid myself of the truth that strips away my grief. My mind programmed into a state of automatic stability.

I want to go home, but home is no where to be found. It seems a disarray of blackness is all that will surround.

The white noise, the small breaths, the rain that spits on the back of my neck. The busy pace, the intellectual race.

This isn't it.

The overcast skies, abandoned people lie. Seemingly forgotten with no where to hide.

They are alone. I am not, but I hear my heart still groan.

Where do I go?

I can't escape. No beach with white sands, no mountains that feels grand. No luxury mall, no historic wall. Nothing makes me want to stay.

My ten year old voice shrieks, "I want to go home" as I cry on my bed.

A home I had for ten years or so, but the emptiness still there. Innately my soul knowing it was bare.

That voice echoes in me now.

Outside a stone face, inside displaced. Am I a mesh of atoms and flickering lights? A chaos DNA that tells me wrong from right.

What else is there?

Do I have any choices or am I subject to the wills of the world?

He is sovereign, he is real. He says I matter, he says he cares.

I have to go back to the truth - that perfect love is given to me. That statement proven on that cursed tree.

Undeserving, but doesn't understand.

Why am I free? 

I can't shake my sense of removal. The world I see, so empty to me.

If only I could disappear from existence, but that's not a choice. I'm made as I am, I'm given a perfect plan.

Help me Daddy, I'm an infant. Weak, fearful, fully dependent.

Home I want, but here I stay. His will I trust until my last day.

Observations from an Outsider

I took myself on a date to the British Museum. After being blown away by the famous paintings in the National Gallery I wanted a twist toward archeological excellence. Before I left, I search for my lost sock in the laundry room. Two days gone. After the 10 pounds it took to do laundry, I lost a sock.

While walking, I am in a cloud of sweet smelling smoke originating from an Ecig, which I much prefer to the stench of a cigarette. Europe’s lungs match the dress code - black and black.

Yesterday, I glanced down at a man’s Camel pack on the table outside the cafe. The picture on the front was of a baby face. I couldn’t understand the connection, why does Camel want the user to think of babies when they smoke?

I grab a free magazine and paper from the bin, pardon the American, rack. I ride a lift down to my train. Occasionally, it’s just me on the platform. My station’s rather small. I’m not sure I’ve ever spent such a long period constantly alone.

The security guard outside the museum asked me if my bag held any knives. I said, "I don’t know" without understanding the questions. He repeats the question with a mix of snicker and concern. I made it through security.

The building seems disorganized. When I think I circle one direction, I end up a dozen rooms to the left. Everyone seems fascinated with the mummies, the room roars with noise. I prefer to read anything I can about ancient Israelites and their oppressors (Assyria, Rome, Babylonians, Greeks, Canaanites, etc.). There's a tomb from Jericho. Ancient idols made of clay. Augustus’ marble head that was buried to shame him.

Hours pass. I’m lost finding the exit, but stumble upon a room glowing white. I want a sweetie from a bakery, but restrain without proper occasion. I walk about 15k steps a day, but fail to exercise. Tonight, I wrote zucchini pasta on the menu to be healthy, but it suddenly comes to me that I bought a cucumber at Borough Market the other day thinking it was zucchini. (Update: I later found out I could not find the zucchini because it is called a "courgette" and I sliced my finger that night trying to peel it. Some ideas are better to not fully find completion.)

I’m herded like cattle through the tube. Pushed, shoved and stepped on through the small staircases during rush hour. Outside, a calm 60 degrees with a white sky. Underground, a 80 degree mosh pit. I imagine myself in Katy Perry’s music video, “Hot N Cold.” The warmth leaves me in a haze of slumber. I wonder how people who fall asleep on the tube know to wake up at their stop.

I climb to the air and reach Leather Street. A contrast of silence to the hectic bustle of the tube. I can hear a nail drop, the hum of a delivery truck on the curb and a whistler echoing from another alley. I pass Santa sifting through heaps of trash to find treasures. The air turns moist and it’s drizzling, but not enough to pull out my umbrella.

I contrast Leather Street with Charing Cross, my previous favorite street. They both harbor bookstores down their alleys, but Leather’s contained chic photo filled magazines while Charing's held antiques. Leather had street food of all kinds. Charing was closer to the Monet paintings. Charing wins. (Update: I found out that Charing Cross was part of the street used in Diagon Alley in Harry Potter. So I am placing more emphasis on it's winning the imaginary cool street contest.)

I reach my destination, Good and Proper Tea. The wifi password is tea and crumpets. I’m not sure what a crumpet is. I try a Rooibos Latte with oat milk, which I now prefer, while I stare at cacti and try to form thoughts. Silence. Where is my tirelessly dripping shower head to give me some white noise? The water always lingers on my toilet from the shower as they are practically on top of one another. London’s space efficient.

I reached home without Citymapper. I’m almost fluent on the tube now. Some people I notice wear heavy coats, some wear skirts and some short sleeves. I’m glad to realize I’m not the only one who can’t comprehend the weather.