I write poems.
I do nothing new,
Yet everything is new in the writing
Somewhat somehow new.
The meanings, words, poems, are new
Yet are repeated epiphanic descriptions
Of the most beautiful One
Who was and is always the same,
Unchanging beauty
I sit out my sudden epiphany,
Taken by surprise,
Here under the countless stars of the night,
Amidst the majestic mountains,
Crying and weeping my heart out
For the beauty of it all,
The beauty of the One.
I, quixotic wanderer in this exile of tears,
Tightroping the walk to the middle-ground sanity,
B'twixt artistic melancholy and earthiness.
Oh I could cry for a thousand years
For the beauty of the most beautiful One,
Who is always the same,
And yet whose love is already new.
How can I ever be the same again
When He who is changeless
Has changed everything
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