a voice crying out in the postmodern wilderness


It keeps you up at night
Occupies your thoughts
Steals your time
You want it so badly you burn inside
But what if it came?
What if you got it?
Your little god made of silver
A trinket in your cupped hands
Your delight
What would you find?
Or would it let you down?
Would it collect dust, or rot, or become obsolete?
Our hearts are made for desire
For unquenchable fire
And yet we extinguish them
With our trinkets
Like feeding a child a serpent
When he asks for a bite of fish

Go Ahead, Against My Will

When the King Returns