This poem is about surrendering to God, which is a lesson I learn over and over, in a really good way.
The first thing to go is my sight--
my eyes are useless,
and blackness surrounds me.
The darkness engulfs me
and bores into my eyes
as strongly in as my eyes seek out.
No light to be found.
The next is my pride,
and I'm forced to my knees,
fingers grasping, anxiety rising,
until I can feel my bones.
I can feel my bones,
and I think they may be fading.
I'm in a cave and I'm fading
and my heart cries out through my mouth,
but my words, they're gone,
they've disappeared
and taken half my heart alongside them.
And my heart is broken,
literally, it seems,
right down the middle between
the words and me,
and their empty ghosts live on
in my heart
with their memories I cant remember
anymore.
And the silence engulfs me.
My hands seek flashlights
to bring them all back--
all the hopes and dreams and songs.
I grasp one in my feeble hands--
and I can feel my bones,
I think they're fading.
But I push a button and a light turns on,
so dim, so slight,
it pains my eyes,
and I think I have an answer.
And so I look for more light,
if there's any to be found.
And what I find are flashlights,
making yellow circles for my eyes,
and I can see them, for a while.
But battery life only lasts so long,
before i'm dead,
before my bones fade away.
I feel my fingers being pried slowly
from my only source of light.
But of course, what I meant was life,
because it's sustaining me. Barely.
But before I can worry
about my life draining my light,
it's gone,
and my light is smashed to pieces
by a hand I did not see coming.
One by one, my yellow spots are stripped from my grasp.
Stripped and smashed.
Stripped and smashed.
and my unseeing eyes cannot cry,
and my misplaced pride cannot lift me off the ground.
And my words,
my words cannot come back to me now.
The silent darkness haunts me again.
Oh, but I can feel.
I can feel my bones,
they've been fading for a while now,
and as strongly as I can feel them fading,
I can feel someone here.
But I'm lost and at a loss at what to do.
Tiny whispers start to work their way
up the walls and down again,
rippling across the floor
and one hits me in the foot,
but I can't hear it.
I can feel the whispers rising;
all around, I hear them gather--
creeping first like fog
to swelling like waves
with ocean white foam at the crest,
I hear.
I hear the whisper,
and it tells me of a hand to hold.
But darkness bores into these eyes of mine,
and as for hands, I can't even see my own.
Yet hopes rise,
and my bones can feel their tremble,
and I need to find my whisperer.
So limbs flail, darkness seeming bigger
than the swelling of the whispers,
until I hear, "Be still." So quietly,
I cannot be sure.
But I cannot find anything this way.
Still louder, Be Still
So I stop. I stop all.
My bones may be fading,
but I hold out my hand
and the whisperer tells
as the whispers still swell,
"I found you."
And as my hand waits,
fingers begin to entwine,
and light like new life
begins to unwind and unveil
and spin and spiral,
until not just mere spots appear,
but I've never seen before now.
and my whisperer, he speaks into me as I stand,
"I won't ever stop finding our open hand."
Words and promises roll over me,
through every pore in my skin.
I am whole, I am ready,
I can see once again.
