Lost Monk

I worship you like the stone ideal gods of old
With the mask makers and the dream catchers
parading along the banks of river beds

Singing odd hems of when the south was pure
Before anything like man ever laid a foot
Upon its perishes soil

I travel and beg for food
Stolen with words
To fancy your favor

I interpret the madness
That plagues the soul
And give new meaning
To truth and wisdom

I sit naked in the temples
Preying for miracles
Crying for grace

Delighted by the sound
Of my own reflection,
Drinking in the solace
of the dark spaces
Between worlds