The irritation that you sometimes feel,
the sadness sliding down your wall,
the jealousy that would sometimes crawl,
the bulging absence of delight,
the memory you think comes between
you and the light,
are part of My play, or clay
I sometimes use to mould a new form.
You cannot lose Me, I toss none aside.
Your forgetfulness, dullness, the inner storm,
all the shadow-acrobatics of pride
partake of a melody in the making,
are the color-spectrum of a painter's palette.
However lost you feel, however much fear
grips you, know you are being borne along
in the arms of a strange enriching song.