You made me run
When I couldn't walk.
You made me plead
When I couldn't talk.
You made me bleed
And thought it was fun.
You made me freeze
But you were my sun.
You beg to speak with me, but it is of your own accord that I sit in ignorance to the sound of your voice. The lies and slander never stopped until you needed me. It will be solitude in which I stand; I am here for you no more.
Our games together are over.
I find my finger tracing silhouettes of strangers
As I tap my foot and stare outside the glass pane in front of me
Onto the street where passersby greet the crisp morning air
With knit scarves and hats and boisterous jackets and saddlebags at the hip,
Ready to ride into town and run out the sheriffs in charge of the show
On West End and Broadway.
Flurries of snow greet the ground with thunderous applause
As I sip my brew, intertwining fingers with my mug like lovers
And tracing silhouettes of strangers standing at the corner
With my free hand.
The silent footsteps remind me of the cars at Piccadilly Circus on the first snow of the season,
And how all rhyme and reason belong to silhouettes of strangers that walk past the storefronts and stoplights and billboards and Barclay's
Instead of the steady sound of tires screeching and stopping traffic
In this picturesque place.
A winter's day in New York is a lot like a winter's day in London;
Silhouettes of strangers are outlined by the fingers of fresh-faced people sipping coffee in a corner café.
They tap their feet and wait for a silhouette to escape the bellowing silence of the snow and the roar of the barren roads.
All they want is to intertwine their fingers with another,
Instead of a lukewarm mug.
A river runs
While a lake stands still
And the mountains eclipse and make dwarves of the hills.
The meadow blooms,
The flowers swoon
As the sunlight of day paves a path for the moon.
As I lie here alone in a desolate state
Immersed in my senses but unfit to relate,
I can't help but notice I'm incredibly small
Surrounded by beauty and grandeur and all.
No friends to console me except the whistling pines,
No one to reach out and hold me
But the wheatgrass feels fine.
When I speak
My words fall like anchors in the sea;
The little waves of the lake that hear them
Shake their heads in disbelief.
The only truth I now hold to heart
Is that oftentimes life takes us back to the start.
A river runs
While a lake stands still
And the mountains are eclipsed by
My power of will.
"I'm full of holes and sinking fast," she said as she told me she needed new faces and a fresh start. She thought what we had between us was irreparable, and by human standards she was right.
In my naiveté, I tried to patch and fill them with imperfect hands and carnal substance.
With temporal eyes, we couldn't see that the many "holes" she thought she had was just a single void, and I was trying to do the job of the Carpenter.
"For you know the grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, that though he was rich, yet for your sake he became poor, so that you through his poverty might become rich."
- 2 Corinthians 8:9
Remember when we talked about angels
Under the sunless sky so dark
It was as if we were the only two sparks left in the world?
Do you remember when we wondered
If they took on life just to walk next to us down the street,
Or to sit down next to us when we cry away our pain
Over a lukewarm cup of coffee?
Do you remember how you felt that night
When you laughed with conviction
And wiped tears from your eyes
Because you were absolutely certain
God sent you an angel in disguise?
Why do we so often take our greatest testimonies and misconstrue them as circumstance? I can only imagine this question is exactly why God sends us angels in the first place.
I stopped at a red light
I waited in the checkout line
I walked the dog along a sidewalk with weeds in the cracks
I made tomorrow's lunch for work
I laid sprawled out on my bed
One night of anger.
Don't give your heart to anger. It controls everything we do.