on the sacred song of water whistling
through time-eroded rocks, the rushing of life above.
Twisted ash stretch and shield,
a barrier to my soul and comforter of life.
Stillness collides with chaos.
I am an intruder, bolstered by
incoherent conversations between trampled spirit
and winds of indecision leaving me empty.
Standards of such sacrifice are meaningless
when destiny is indisposed
and faith has washed downstream.
This vast collection of inadequacies
corrupts my mourning soul
with revelations of daily existence.
And I wonder what grace really means.
Does a heart restrained by betrayal hold
the capacity to feed the multitudes?
The moan of a lone brown trout
says, it is finished.
I demand, Who is in charge?
Truths are vital when facing the grave,
yet I fail to listen for the answer.
Soothed by connection,
that lullaby of temporary sustenance,
I am not prepared for imposition of soul.
Wisdom whispers, You may not barter.
But the leaves of my existence argue.
My core cries for validation,
I have no song, tears melding in unity
with the river’s flow.
Reach into the depths.
Find me. Find yourself.
Words, not my own, resurrect me.
Holy song of praise shatters deception.
Sunlight glistening on the surface
reflect all that is possible.
Echo rises through my bones to waters’ rush.
I reach to welcome my broken self.
From the profundity of darkness, I see
I am not finished.