SecondHandSaintsblog

has it really been

that many days?

i swore i could never

forget your face

or the way your voice

bounced down the hall

when you called me from

the top of the stairs.

i miss the smell of your

hair at the back of your

neck when you’d just

come out of the shower.

all of these moments

are here somewhere,

tucked in my mind

needing only

a quick sound or just

a trace of a scent

and my mind will be

back there again…

thinking of you.

my heart rattles so much

these days, it feels like

a small sparrow is trapped

inside my chest.

some days i’d like

to be free of all the fluttering

and just let it go,

but i can’t.

there is a terrible loneliness,

this being alone.

i am so lost in this

oversized bed, that

most nights i just

curl up on the floor.

it’s crazy, i know.

i didn’t have enough

time to prepare,

even a hundred years

would have been too soon.

we always joked that

the passing of days

was counted by the phases

of the moon,

and here i am with

no one to help me wind

my watch properly or

keep track of the

minutes that are

passing into days.

but mostly, i am here

without you, and there

is no one to sit beside me

to help me count

how many moons

are left to be seen

or how many moons

have already gone.

i’d like to think that

if any of this life,

any of these days

were mine to save

or delegate,

i would go back to childhood

and have us meet

while we were

still quite young.

unjaded and unspoilt by

the passage of time

we’d be wrapped with

an innocent love,

and taken by the beauty

of the world.

but more so than that,

we’d have hearts

ready to fill with new

discoveries, and

the marvels of the Lord.

we’d climb up

mountain paths,

through winding trails

fringed with flowers and grass.

exhausted, we’d be

swept down in the

rush of silvery streams,

bouncing over pebbles

and stones as smooth as glass.

at the bottom,

we’d chase each other

with bursts laughter

and splashes of water…

then we’d rest for awhile

as our breath caught up

and filled back

into our chests.

then,

i’d follow where

you’d want to go,

and see everything

you’d want to show.

later, as the glimmers

of the stars overtook

the night sky

we’d dance like

silly creatures under

the phases of the milky moon

drinking from this youthful cup.

as the new day was about

to break into dawn

we’d straighten up,

but before i’d allow

the tender rays of the

morning sun to guide

our way back home,

i’d look all the way deep

into your black eyes,

and with my

hand in yours,

and yours in mine,

i’d make a wish upon

every star i’d just seen,

to stay there,

with you, forever

frozen in time.

Oh Lord, here i am

still weak and on my knees.

face down i feel like I

do not belong,

even here at Your feet.

i have no tears to bathe

You with,

my heart is dried

liked baked, crumbly

clay that has been

outside in the sun too long.

i am barren desert

wastelands.

Come call me home.

i am bent with age,

there is nothing

that would make

men raise their

eyes to look at me.

Will You Oh Lord, still

look for me?

Will You Oh Lord,

still come gather me

from the thorny bushes

i have caught myself in?

Will You Oh Lord,

still recognize me in

this state I am in?

some poets dream

that with their gift of

writing words,

the walls that separate

the man from many,

would crumble, and tumble down.

poetry to some

is a sort of God song,

waiting to be sung.

a way of elevating man

from the weight of his

own savage being.

both poetry and prose,

done well,

give cause for the soul

of the simple man

to dream and contemplate

heaven and eternal things.

it gives the humble man

the ability to raise

his eyes upwards,

and pass beyond the rigidness

of time.

it lengthens boundaries,

and changes the manner

in which the brain

contemplates eternity.

poetry can be an emotional

force of wordy waves

that pound and rush forth

like blood in the veins.

but poetry can also

softly come,

trickling like midnight’s tears

sobbed quietly

so no one else

can hear.

poetry, to the humble

poet, is a sort of calling

from the Lord, it is

the use of God’s good gifts,

to reach through the

confines of our mortality,

and explore those heavenly

realms,

where one day we might

have the chance to meet

some of those whom

with our gifts,

we were able to encourage

to soar upwards and dream.

you will always hold

a bit of my heart,

so I ask you,

please take care of it

from here on out.

you know, as well as I do,

there is no ever going back,

we have seen the future

and there is no

place for us in it.

perhaps it was fate,

or just happenstance

that we ever even met.

i used to think everything

that happened with us

was from the hands of God,

but i don’t know anymore.

i can’t pinpoint the moment

where i veered off His path

and started creating my own.

but you were there, and

for whatever it is worth,

it felt like it was meant to be.

but we are not children,

and we both should

have known that

actions led by our emotions

are never really who we are

or where we should

lay our paths.