postcards and prayers

i woke up this morning without a prayer,
waited for the sun to break the window,
rolled out, the sky was cold and gray,
its easier to love that way.

when the sky is alive it seems irony,
as if painted for chance, for the moment,
prepared for the off chance i would walk by.

i taped you're postcard to the wall,
above the fireplace, beside the photographs,
with the others of it's size.
my house is less empty with time, and beautiful with age
i'm still waiting for my fears to follow.

i thought about what it means to be a man
and how "to own a dragon".
how do i find what i am in this ambigous life?
let me know by the end of the book.

i painted a picture before i woke up,
it was of you, walking under the clouds,
rain for a empty morning.
formed with the clay with my hands,
the lines and marks on the page
and the colors on the canvas.
to create, is something of imagination,
of deeps sighs and long laments.

i stood at a mirror and saw sadness in the eyes,
and wisdom in the lines of the face,
i hope someone sees the same, today.

(i'm trying to re-discover the root of why i started this journal. all i can come up with is "to write for the sake of writing.")

i'm alive but tell me am i free,
i've got eyes, but tell me can i see?
the sky is falling, and no-one knows.

-lifehouse