My words come strongest through the pouring rain,
Through angry thunder, raging wind, and storm.
They use the lifeline of my loss and pain
To find their shape and take their truest form.
My heart has never quite so pure a tongue
As when it's shattered, broken and alone.
And never has a sweeter song been sung
Than for the deepest hurt that I have known.

What is there then, life of my life, to write
Of you, dream of my dream, soul of my soul?
You're not mere words—you are my breath, my light,
Home to my Being, safe and free and whole.
Past poetry, past prose, a greater art—
For you I build the work with self and heart.