| lay down | lay down your weary tune | lay down the song you strum and rest yourself | 'neath the strength of strings no voice can hope to hum | and let the morning breeze like a bugle blow against the drums of dawn | and be struck by the sounds before the sun knowing that the night is gone | and stand unwound beneath the skies and clouds unbound by laws | unbound by laws | and rest yourself 'neath the strength of strings no voice can hope to hum |
February 12, 2008
Pamplona
In a world where expressionism and existentialism run side by side as thoughtlessly as bulls down those famous corridors in Pamplona; in such a loud place as our own minds, where so many rushing options come so fast and all of them call themselves truth; in that pressing din that so often and dangerously charges through our minds' corridors towards a spiritual senselessness which often chases us further on into hurt, the provision of such forces as Jesus over the raging waters, the rapture of the saints from the dead, and the contrary unified din of angels' trumpets from the round earth's imagined corners blowing as those same saints arise; the provision of these things finds me caught, still, clear, safe, lucid, and lifted amidst the cloud of the bull rush.
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