You are there when hope fails.
As relentless as dust in the desert.
You, the architect of Artic desolation,
Biding time with plans
For the expanse of a soul laid bare.
Is it not still enough now?
Must more be planed from my ruin?
Can’t You, the above all You, build with spoiled stone,
With storm-splintered timber,
With quake-stressed steel?
Precision and purity ache as snow under sun.
Grace is a forgotten dream lisped
From children’s mouths in innocence.
RootsRewound 