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Poem

There is a tide I yearn to ride;
A need to feel the world grow real.
There is a storm that brews unborn;
And strains for peace -- the soul’s release.
I seek some proof of God’s great truth;
Yet shrink inside my hardened hide.

This is my life -- I flee from strife,
And kill myself, upon the shelf.
This is my breath, it cries for death,
Then hides inside the kiddie rides.
This is my birth, it draws no mirth, 
And brings but fear, the end draws near.

But what is death,
And what is birth; 
And what is life,
And what is truth.

All tides and storms abide and form
Our birth on earth and death of breath.
All stormy tides throw proof of truth
Into our hides stretched on God’s roof.

The birth of mirth,
The death of breath,
The strife of life,
The proof of truth,
The tidal storm,
The child is born, 
To live in strife,
The proof of life.

Is this then life, to conquer strife;
To jeer at fear, and ride the tide.
To push back death with every breath;
To break the shelves and find ourselves.

Is this then peace, and our release,
To stretch when born, and ride the storm;
To laugh at birth upon this earth,
And seek God’s proof of hidden truth.

There is no death, just man’s release;
Eternal breath -- and heaven’s peace.

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