the theology of thought

In the thick of collarbone, driving splinter deep into the reprise of foundation, I met a boy made of wood. He lived with a horse of noise, in a castle that shown like a city on a hill. But I am a lightbulb, pale from the retreat of night and white-knuckle days. I believe in the woodpecker-- the tree he pokes and prods from dawn 'til dusk. I enjoy the rethink of Jesus, the awe of omniscience, the revamp of king. I hunt through blue lighted snow, heavy on my heart and soft on my pink boots.