A nearly imperceptible churning—
as if your wristwatch skipped a tick or two,
or your heartbeat lagged a fraction of a second longer between beats.
No doctor would panic
the time would stay the same
But you would know.
Could that be the Blessed Mother’s sweet song
whispering soft wisdom to me, if I only dare to listen—
Or does my enemy entice me with honey on his lips
tugging lightly on my pride
to lead my timorous footfalls to a snare?
My heart is aflame within me,
sensing either life or death,
burning just the same.
Is it better to avert my eyes—
as though I always lived life a couple of seconds ahead—
or to reach my fingers to an unwilling hand?
You have been my comfort;
why have I never known Your character less than now
Have mercy on my pursuit, I plead,
stretch Your arms wide to catch me
wherever I land.
You
of all people
know how it feels for the body to turn over within itself.
I cover my ears
succumbing to the stirring inside
while dejection claws at my wrists,
frantic for me to understand: I place my soul in danger—
I am already free.
But I still choose the bondage of knowing.
Eyes closed in prayer, knees rooted to the earth—
I fight in solitude.
Sweat and tears alike drift downwards,
my petitions directed to those who may not exist.
Forgive me for my unbelief—
rescue me from this purgatory of indecision—
lest he who hesitates be truly lost.
Am I choosing to pay for what is freely given—
oh, how to portray
that this act of dissension
is a pursuit of unity
What if this costs me everything
and only grants me what I had before—
And, what if, by reaching for You,
I lose you altogether?
Is it your will to let me fall
My eyes cast downward
only to see heaven’s beauty reflected in the dust of Earth.
Do not forsake me for feeling this beckoning is more right—
that it reflects You so much more—
than the cacophony of all other revelations here.
I used to think You could only be found in silence,
but what is the struggle if not that every voice
is infused with your tonality?—
that the cadence in wailing
and chanting
and the rustling of wind—
mimic the way You call out to me?
How much more, now,
when strewn between two choirs of truth,
does my discernment fail me
Don’t let me fall into the chasm of ambiguity
which lies between
Nor let my rest be found in retreat.
My arm grasps for the next handhold
if only I could reach beyond fear
Truth is bound in paradox—
its inward parts in fracture and dismay.
If held to the light, could the sun’s rays pass through
or would they splinter off,
illuminating different parts of the room?
Would each beam be bright as the sun itself
or merely incline us to glance upward towards it
