I left on my own,
My hand still on the
Smooth doorway.
I could see the blood
Of past generations
Smeared over the paint,
Flickering in my eyes.
The original cross—
I was not on my own.
I was covered by
The Lamb.

The robe was borrowed,
Stitched to my skin—
I tried to rip it away,
And wear one of my
Own choosing—
Only the thread was
Made of love, giving
Me pain to ultimately
Save me from the folly
Of wearing my own
Righteousness—

My arms shook as I held myself
Closely to the rock face,
Fingers cramping and toes
Just barely holding on—
I would rather look down,
And see all that I have overcome,
Than dwell on the stony,
Impenetrable wall I was now
Challenged to scale.

I only meant to understand.
The red on your hands,
your sick smile--
I thought if I could
find the justification,
the reason,
That I could sooth
The seething fire
Inside of you.
But as I digressed
farther and farther
Into the depths,
Searching for that
Part of you,
Trying to imitate it
And become the same,
I found that my steps,
my breadcrumbs,
Had been lost.
I pulled numbly at the ceiling,
trying to find the bulb that
Would bring back the brightness
But the glass shards smashed
under my feet, and now
I understood
Much.
Too.
Well.

The hours tick by--
Simply beads on
A chain, sliding
Down, down,
Running out of
Space, of yellow
Pearls to complete
The reoccuring
Sequence I 

Cannot bare
To see disrupted.

My bracelet of
Security is
Bound to break,
Scatter the floor
With all of my
Hopes and
Plans.

She said the walls always
Seemed to march towards her,
Closing in, squeezing, until she
Couldn’t breathe.

Her eyes pressed shut, and her
Hands didn’t know what to do with
Themselves. I tried to comfort her,
But it was useless.

It seems to me that no matter how
Small a space is, God fills the air and
The very walls, living in the fears we
Perceive all around.

My touch was cold on her stressed skin,
But God’s is gentle, everlasting, like
Laundry fresh from the dryer, warm
And comforting.

When will I crouch down in disbelief,
Holding a beeping metal rod as I
Stare down at the unfeeling mud
That hides my supposed salvation? 

Do I find these answers that I seek
Because I am out looking for them
On windswept ***** beaches, both
Crowded and filled with lightning,
Or do I never find them at all?

I rest for nothing. Day or night,
I sift through granulated rock,
Hoping to find something slightly
Shiny, even if my hands are ruined
And red from the relentless digging.

All along, the answers were not
At my feet, but resting on my shoulder:
A gentle hand, a waiting embrace,
And a father who wanted to walk
With me, not watch as I scrambled
On rocks to insanity—I found
Gilded answers, but not through
A machine or mindlessly scratching.

I found the greatest treasure of all:

My Lord & Savior, Jesus.

The pattern of the chains
Imprints on the pads of
My hands as I cling tightly
To the swings.

My hair is taken by the wind.
I hear a song in my head.
I sway back and forth, my
Feet dry from the sand.

The moment is taken
Too soon.

No matter the years
That settle themselves
On my frame,
I will forever be a Child,
Pushed on the swings
By my Father.

We must know God
To reflect Him.
Or else we will accept
The warped circus
Mirrors’ interpretation.

The busy-bodied thoughts
That complained they were
Late for work, slowed their
Pace as a gentle Spirit
Descended on the grubby,
Activity-ridden streets.
Their hands loosened their
Grip on the hard-edged
Briefcases, and the buzz
In their bodies settled
Into a lackadaisical hum.

I picked a spot
By the freeway
And sat like a
Beggar,
Pretending
The rush of cars
Was the current
Of a thoughtless
River.

Smudged tiles and tilted walkways,
Machines that clunked and rattled,
Accompanied by drowsy people
Waiting for grace.

I stumbled to an empty metal box,
My filthy rags clutched in my hands,
And threw them in, falling to my knees.
I had no detergent,

No way to wash the deep-rooted stains
The world had reaped upon them.
My own choices stared back at me like
Dirt from the subway.

Tears started to carve tracks down my
Face as the blood of Jesus soaked
Into the garments, covering the grime
As they began to spin.

When I opened the door, they were
Made new again.

My heart was an elevator shaft,
Falling too fast, skipping floors—
It was rickety as it tried to fulfill
The orders of my mind, reeling
As each new person found a
Home within its walls.

The button lights flickered, unsure
Of themselves and the places
They were supposed to foretell—
Only, there was a repairman in linen
Who peered over the edge at the
Metal and torn cords.

He knew the only way to make it
Steady again, was to let it descend
Deeper into the depths of the building,
Until the small figure inside looked
Up at him through the square cavity,
And realized it was safe.

The elevator was not falling--

It never had been.

The man in linen held the ropes
With sure, steadfast hands,
Saving me from the darkness
Separating me from Him.

Shadows

Become

So much

Darker

When they

Overlay

Each other

As I laid down to rest,
My glasses dug
Painfully into my head,
A constant reminder
That I must get up,
Pull myself
From the condition
Of words drummed
Into my skull—
All that is shameful,
Stillness, breath,
‘Stand up and move—

Tire your soul,’
until you realize
there is nothing left

The chains cinched tighter
Around my wrists.
I felt them dig into my ankles,
And my blood grow hot
In my throat.
But my mind was clear—
Sinking deeply into a soft,
Pastel embrace.
I was in my faith.
Jesus held me, his promises
Forming a warm wall
Around my soul.
I let go of the outward pain,
Knowing no one
Could touch me here.