The sky is a looming grey,
The color of old asphalt to the far horizon,
Edged and interwoven with bands of white and gold.
The black silhouette of a bird
Wings beating in slow, measured strokes,
In the face of chill autumn winds.
The world seems paused.
A live still-life.
A portrait of a moment between the in and exhale.
Flawed, Fractured, and Fragmented.
Is that tragic?
Glass is melted sand.
Clear, crystalline glass,
Translucent and infinitely malleable,
Heated beyond all measure.
Paint is nothing more than pigments ground fine,
Dust mixed with oil,
Redistributed under the hand of the artist
Into windows to a world unseen.
Sculpture is a stone carefully destroyed,
Chipped and carved and shaped,
Until the truth hiding inside is released.
Great writing flows best from hands that have trembled in the dark.
Beauty is created from broken things.
I am broken.
The artist is making me beautiful.
The sky is rose-tinted gold
Sliding into blue
Fading into gray.
Night creeps up,
Following the painted sky.
The air is autumn apples,
Crisp and sweet.
Overhead, birds trace a moving V
As they chase their eternal summer.
Winter creeps up,
Following the painted trees.
I know bird people,
I know bear people.
Stocked up and hunkered down.
Ready to retreat and wait out the long night of winter.
I’ve been both.
I’m moving through it,
Part of it.
Ready to dance in the dark
And walk through the winter.
The sun’s coming back.
See me sit,
Sighing sighs deep enough to fill the skies.
A long, slow breath of melancholy .
Still, I sit .
I stand .
I walk .
Sometimes the world presses,
Crushing down to squeeze me out .
I remain .
I am coal becoming diamond
On the days when your sighs fill up the skies,
And your tears fill the oceans,
Take my hand .
I’ll sit with you,
Stand with you,
Walk with you,
Until we both shine
There are many things I do not know.
I do not know how to be perfect.
I do not know how to live up to the expectations of others.
I do not know how to tear away these scars that wrap me head to toe.
I do not know how to be other than I am.
There are few things I do know.
I do know that some love me as I am.
I do know that my flaws are forgiven.
I do know that, somehow, God has made these patchwork scars into art.
And I do know that, at the end of the day,
I’d rather sing for the joy of the song
Than for the praise of the critic.
Is almost done.
Bloody, battered, bruised bones,
One lurching step at a time,
Carry me closer.
I want to quit.
I want to sit in the mud,
And weep over the long miles past,
The road behind,
When I ran swiftly and easily.
Why shouldn’t I quit?
Why not sit in the mud?
“Who do you race? ”
” Do you race the others on the road?
Or yourself? ”
I am weary.
I am worn.
Get up, fool!
Turn your feet to wings,
Sing your song aloud,
With every panting breath.
Race to the finish.
Is nearly done.
In an Ocean of Grace,
I flail and flounder,
Fighting to keep my head above.
Fighting for control.
Fevered, frightful, fearful fool.
I fight to save my life,
My battered, scarred and broken life.
Let my struggles end.
Let me sink beneath.
Let the waters close over me.
Let me drift down
To find my truer life,
My better life,
My whole and unscarred life.
Fill my lungs with
Fill my lungs with life.
Floating in faith.
Drowning in Grace.