Your fingers brushed over the
imprints, feeling deep into
the bruise——his
words left wounds and
wounds left craters—
my heart a
rough moon, shaped and
bent into faces unknown
And in its dark rooms lie
pictures, undeveloped, where
life still breathes and
love still moves, but
it stirs ever so quietly, not
to wake the thoughts where the
saddest things bloom.
There are secrets that
live in the walls, tears that
color the windows and
dampen the floor.
O, morose sky! Are you
here to mourn too?
Your anguish rings through
the clouds and I sit,
small and cross-legged
beneath the grieving canopy
Yet this book I hold in
my hands holds me, as
Life lives within its pages and
ever-lives for me.
It tells Your story, it speaks,
for when You closed Your
eyes in death, I
was awakened the moment I
first believed; and
though the water bears much
blood from the beatings, Your
grace is a beautiful thing.
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