The Sacred Dirt

I forgot how to write
by the time I was five—
shamed by voices,
tamed by teachers
who never touched the fire inside.

But when that final school bell rings,
I race toward the forest's hymn,
or desert winds, or mountain sings—
anywhere She waits for me again.

If I could stay for more than a day,
this holy place would never fade.
But time folds space, and space returns,
and silence leaves a smokeless flame.

Now the pastors preach with painted eyes,
and presidents wear masks that lie.
Angel, demon—same disguise,
depending on the hat I try.

Yet the truth—it never bends:
beyond name, beyond the end.
Beyond shame, beyond the game—
the melody remains the same.

The music comes
when I turn toward home.
She was there—
so silent, so alone.

Patient, like a breath not drawn,
like stars before the rise of dawn.
What the blind can’t see ahead
are mountains made of words unsaid.

Still shackled feet
drag chains through fire,
spittin’ sparks
toward heart's desire.

Yes, I know the long road home—
co-pilot talking on my phone,
but deeper still another tone—
a whisper sharp as polished stone.

It tempts, it stings, it prophesies
of what I lost, of wasted skies.
But Love cuts through that dissonance—
with open arms and fierce defense.

Punches holes in all my pride,
breaks “best in show” from deep inside.

And crazies? They’re just kin to me—
wandering wide in mystery.
Artists live with hands in dirt,
where sacred soil redeems the hurt.

It’s rough, I know, for modern man
to touch what rules can't understand.
With freaky Fridays, manic moons,
and Mondays warped like haunted tunes—

This vessel rocks from fore to aft,
just a little too fast,
but still, I laugh.

Because, my love, I’m learning to see:
no surface street can bury the deep
when it’s the deep I seek—
with heart, hands, and eyes all wide,
happy to help,
not here to harm
this sacred dirt—
our shared alarm,
which breathes in me
as I in thee.