Waiting to be made Good
despairing here abandoned
trapped in the deeps
between the firmaments
the points of life above
the speckled infinities within
drowning in the deeps
waiting maybe for the spirit of God
to move across the face of the waters
for an evening and a morning
I don’t know where my soul is
to seek, or find or knock, or open
or any redeeming thing
anything would be welcome here
an hallucination for a Comforter
a seizure for an angel
my soul is a world without form, and void
and nothing earthly can fill it
or give shape to it; it shall all be torn away
endlessly old I can scarce believe
in becoming new
Siege of the Spirit 