My bent road, remains rigidly confused; directionally refused,
like poles of assurance, demagnetized as my thoughts lean, lured towards the whispers of ghosting fears; questioning memory's recesses and haunts, holding holy verses like a string on my finger, a divorced reminder marking failed faith; in waiting The Answer, doubt incubates unbelief...
"That is sin" say those on the straight, about this narrow shadowed path
trod by my soul, affecting understanding in passing time's cairns;
Verses speak: not height nor depth; yet, separation augments mind's inventions, stalking joy with umbras, dark questioning of even the skeptic, mining the same answers, belief found walking altared gounds, footfalls reading: One was here, returning...
I have heard dawn coming for hours now, rushing down the hills to my door. The howling wind, sharp with searching, pierces through glass, singing of pain, bringing unwanted visitors, yet expected guests.
Naked limbs, abandoned in their rest, lie softly shuddering, stirred by knowledge of Light close-by; whispering of failing graces.
Silence creates the minutes' accompaniment before the day's break. Before, illumined, I can no longer hide.
I take this time now to write in honor of One, whose work for me is never ever done. With his uses of three, bringing good things up to me, He considers seeing my smile at offered gifts his true fun.
Ever so gently he prods and he pleads, “Use me to help increase your daily caloric needs! Do not fret, I am safe. What I bring, please take.” Spoon, fork and knife, oh, you make eating a breeze.
I keep this friend, Spork, always near. His presence allows me never to fear. Is this possessive? Oh sure. But, this way I know that he's undoubtedly pure. Crumbs of wheat? No! They will not bring me any more tears!