There is a hope in our children
when we birth their tiny hands
waiting for them to make their
first markings.

They are bluish, cloudless skies and
miracles, like magicians
out of thin air
waving wands coaxing
a future mother has been
dreaming of.

Empty nest of twigs broken
against arms holding,
reaching, straining to take back
the damaged days burnt under
a sunlight.

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story idea

Not I in this life,
though I wished so hard,
and prayed every night.
Not God's dream for me,
though it hurt much
not to be.

Still with each breath, Lord,
though you may not give this,
I can feel one man, arms long, singing
craft, and peace, loving creatures
gently, and waiting for only my tune.

Though a wife I will (probably) never be,
though hope refuses to leave my soul,
it is what I listen for, the sound of
rugged wood, of fire, and reason.

Scoffers and fools
wasting away
chafed by the wind
ruined, crumbled
stolen from, rejected.

The poverty of the poor is their ruin,
I am in poverty.
A rod for the back if you have no sense,
I make foolish choices.
I worry and dread,
and yes, it comes true.

How much more of me and mine will be destroyed?

Turn me around, O Lord.
Make my mouth, my lips, my words righteous.
Guide me with your instruction
and keep me only along your path
that I may find men and women,
brothers and sisters, to learn with,
to pace my life with, to encourage one
another towards your solid way.

The only person who calls me today is
the creditor man.
God told me I was supposed to date him from now on,
and I guess I'll listen to him this time.
There was a fear I had at 25, that I would crawl out
of an old apartment house each day,
stinking of agedness.
People, that fear is about to happen, and I don't know
how to stop it.
Death has me in it's grip, and despite everything
Christ promises, I can not feel the light.