Friday, October 25, 2013


There rose upon the face of grace, a darkened light,
which wrote as sorrow, scrawled in wasted, falling pen
and washed as breath across the guarded brow;
reality,  which force of mind could not dispel.

As if some truth had pushed through cornered hope,
demanding that it speak beyond the depths of fear,
if only to reveal a substance, lost; that form of Soul,
which sings; demands we stop and surely hear.

The ropes hold fast around the mast of dead belief,
the body slumps, the visage chills against the wind,
as reason drives a steady course through raging seas,
to take us home regardless; salvation does begin.

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