write me a letter with your words upon it

words unwilling to bite my hand

or suck the feelings from my hampered smile

write, simply write and i'll know you're there

there where i fled when you chased me from your room

you were the dream of my haunted past

the stigma laying on my breath as i attempted to speak

what was i to do but run, run both to and from the...

you know what i mean as i hesitate to speak

somewhere down the road of our constant fleeing

we'll turn to look, to observe, to hold whom you're chasing

is it you, yourself, caught up in the the bog

trapped in the quagmire of our constant disappointments?

i want to know, to know because we're both at our end

and no one can heal us but us as we collapse on the floor

stretching for forgiveness with blood on our hands

*Reflections of Frederick Buechner:

  -Prayer is the sound made by our deepest aloneness.

  -People pray because they cannot help it.  In one way or another, I think, all people pray.

  -Christ never promises peace in the  sense of no more struggle and suffering.

  -His own life speaks loud of how, in a world where there is little love, love is always lonely.

  -...if there really is a God who has this power to heal, to make whole, then it is wise to be very cautious indeed because if you go to him for  healing, healing may be exactly what you will receive, and are you entirely sure that you want to be be healed?

  -It is a wise man who bewares of God bearing gifts.