While on the go, I sometimes jot these small visions down. Some of them are actual, which might mean I’m going slightly mad. Oh well.
It hobbles in, little sunflower,
amidst peeling paint.
Where have my hands gone, it asks,
my voice? But I can hear
words– fibers circle my ears,
petal-hands push me out of bed.
when she said joy, she meant
thistles and grit; hopeless
against pain, still, the clearing
wades through; joy remains
though we bicker our dividends, hurt.
She goes to her room, sunk
in shutters and ache, to lay
beside the lamps of Your words, to hum
sadness in strings, restore
Your eyes, let dark beauty be.