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Poem
Observe;
I look at you, and you look through me;
And what I see is the same old rules,
And the same old structures,
Upon which we each create our songs and stories.
For you are my brother, And I am your sister.
and whether we realize it or not (and we do not)
Our souls sing at least a handful of similar notes.
And my song shifts,
And your song shifts,They each reverberate of a place, an upbringing, a haven, and a love,
And also of a nightmare, a horror, a tear, a hellish place;
We are kin,
we have our differences,
as one would expect,
for Woodworker never carved the same piece twice...
  For you and I held hands through the storm
  and afterwards huddled round the burning fire, drenched and chilled;
  Waiting for Sun to throw her fabrics, to cover the corners of our home,
  To arouse us from our state
  And to sweep us into another.

We dive into the river, pouring ourselves onto sweet Earth,
catching the scent of her lilacs, his fragrance of pine needles,
We feel the water engulf us, as if an embrace, a mere friendly gesture,
but soon come to discover its true state;
The embrace of my sweet mother..
Your pine needle aroma..
Your scent of flowers..

Woodworker is proud of His work.
As he passes me and you hand to hand, feeling the edges,
The rough patches where weather has left its mark;
The smooth surface where nothing has disrupted the peace;
As He chips away at the wood, knife in hand
I gather the shreds that fall to the floor.

'Woodworker,' I ask solemnly.
'Why have you chosen to harvest the wood? Were you not the one to plant the Tree? Did you not wish for Tree to be the source of your love?'

With the stroke of His beard, He looks at me, eyes full of amusement,
'The Child shan't question my craft!
The Child shan't cloak herself wit the illusion of omniscience!'

I sing my song, quietly, with you.

But He fails to see that we all abide to the same law of the universe, that we are all of the same origin, 
and I am just as wise as He,
and He, as Childish as I

For He will not listen..

But I place my faith in You, brother. For I love you. I love all.
How can one judge when we are same? How can one persecute when we have committed the worst crime of all?
How do we listen to Woodworker and never question?

A title does not decide!
A religion does not decide!
He does not decide!

And yet these words I channel through me!
For you
convey more than a word ever could.

No prayers give you any more than I.

So, will you take my hand?
And will you hold on?
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