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Not a man of many words,
With many things to say,
Such as these drifting dreams,
When You'll return someday.

In Your embrace we'll fall,
Us waiting things,
Your mournful Beloved,
Loose, tattered strings.

Weave us as You did before,
Into a selcouth tapestry,
Held aloft from this sorrow,
A mosaic of Your artistry.

Until then we lie,
Pieces in a puzzle askew,
Desperately watching the stars,
For a telling sign of You.

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