How can a shadow become solid?
Form and weight could arise from this stolid haze?
I am stuck to the wall,
Trapped in a 2-D hall
Stretching on into seemingly endless lines.
Nothing penetrates these shuttered blinds.
Time just winds its clock and locks me to this plane.
When Your words rain, they pass right through,
Leaving no dew, no taste, no fragrant memory of You.
I can imagine sweetness and touch of the eternal,
But its kernel is hidden from conception.
I yearn, groan, ache for inception of real
Flesh that can be cut, pierced, held by truth.

Burst out of black and white curly lines connected on a flat page!
Rage with Your roar, untamed Judah King,
Exploding art, create my heart clean and whole,
Beating solely with shed blood.
Absent from creation’s voice I am formless mud,
Dead to heaven,
Unable to grasp the nearness of dimensional space,
Wearing new emperor clothes of disgrace,
While robes of an invisible kingdom stand hollow,
Waiting for me to take my place.
But I am a shadow, and Your book I can’t open or look upon or be.
How can a ghost know intimacy?