Intoxicated by the Light,
I cannot resist It resting in my throat,
waiting in the Waiting for another Sip.
This Vineyard Press is death- wrenching. We used to be here to quench a glass of thirst,
now It crushes into me, these Vineyard Whispers: like a Cup thirsting for me, to thirst for Its Quenching.
The Vineyard Keeper gives me Space in His Garden, a Lent, a Leaning in this season of my soul, with the Whisper.
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