Angels do not dream
Save when they are demons
for dreams are made of vapid things
no use to the right hands of God
Here, it seems, we cling to dreams
or plays of utter futility
For we are granted nothing else
to see us thru the nightmare
What small thing can change this world
to a bitter ugly thing
from the grace of the One
filled with light and love
to a hell of pain and unbelonging
ripe with self doubt and loathing
Words
nay, those things left unspoken
the silences between the words
the inadequacies felt but not said
the emptiness left unseen
Astounding what harm we cause
thru what we will not express
it all comes down to the old man's words
a failure to communicate
We work in the Dark; we give what we have. Our Doubt is our passion- our passion is our task, and the rest is the madness of art. -Henry James
