For all the saints…

Softly across the stone rectangles
Her hands lingered –
Palms and index pointed
At names and dates.

who from their labors rest,…

As if those behind the
Stones could feel her there;
As if the sainthood were
Rubbing off, a soulful osmosis.

who thee by faith
before the world confessed,…

The book was not unnoticed,
And she opened it slowly,
Unsure of what she might find –
Names, dates, scripture, loved ones.

thy name, O Jesus,
be forever blessed.

The baptismal font stands
Here, guarding its kin –
A promise from long ago;
A trust, a hope, faithfulness.

Alleluia!  Allelulia!


©  Lewis Bosworth, 2015

She called me Honey Bee, that was my nickname.
If I could hear her call me that one more time I would be happy.
If I could touch her beautiful hair one more time, I would be happy.
If I could tell her I’m sorry and say I love her, I would be happy.
If I could tell her how much she means to me, I would be happy.

at times, i wish i hadn't learned to love so much.

there is always a lingering weight in my chest;
my heart, already fragile enough,
fights to carry it through every waking moment.

hellos are my favorite things, but they're merely precursors
to the poison of goodbyes, to the sickness of loneliness
and the yearning to be elsewhere
in other places, with certain people.  

tears fall as quickly as grins go from ear to ear,
roaring laughter easily fades into deafening silence,
and this wishy-washy soul is one i could never get a hold of.

but what would i be without love,
without the burden of feeling?
what would i be without the days spent day dreaming,
the moments i run out of breath
from gushing about people and moments,
the nights spent crying all alone,
and being vulnerable to the world,
but feeling the best of it anyway?

i love, but i hurt.
i hurt, but i love.
and that is all that matters.