His worship wandered
to shallow places,
where shallow idols
buy time and tears.

He’d dried up somewhere
in the days of depth.
A forgotten place
where his soul was once wet.

The sift of discontent
now resides behind his eyes.
A soul since dead,
and lost forever were his cries.

In the early morning
I’m a kid again
It reminds me of the quiet
when the evening snow fell.  
And the hope of tomorrow
where school was no more.  

There are no lions in the early morning,
Only rabbits and my armadillo friend.  
The herrons skiddish though
and never stays to talk.  

But the day grows gray
in the rush of the sun,
And I grow older
on my way back home.  
The dawn is not sacred and there is no snow,
And I’m not a kid anymore.