My heart flutters and aches in
the quiet recess of the morning.
My chest, as skin peeled back, as
ribs exposed—a cage with
little evening doves hovering beneath
the sternum.
They are sad—O, sweet things! I
ponder at the thought of ever
having hurt them like you did.
Bruised wings brushing the
insides, the tips of my soul—
sore but still breathing. Maybe
this was my fault as much as it
was yours; maybe we're all just
tired little things, limp and exhausted and
sad through the whispering wounds.
And now this softly bandaged thing
beats faint within my chest
beats strong within Your hand
No words dare leave the dryness of
my tongue, but You hear the
spirit's thirsting as I churn through
the ashes—You spin my
death into gold.
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