In the wounds of woman and the steadfastness of man,
   Eden remembers.


Movement One: The Celebration of the Wound

He does not bring the scalpel
because he despises her wound..
   he brings it

because he loves her glory too much
to leave it buried beneath the scar.

He does not cut her to own her.
He cuts her, trembling,
because he believes in what will rise
when the old blood runs clean.

It is not an act of violence.
It is an offering of celebration—
the highest kind of self-love,
the boldest kind of faith—
to believe that the Lord Himself
will bend over the wound
and pour His living water
into the brokenness.

And as the wound opens,
and the darkness spills out,
he does not recoil.
He does not rescue.
He does not preach.

He watches.
He prays.
He stands.

And when she rises,
washed and radiant,
he knows:
her rising demands his own.

There is no longer room
for smallness in him.
No longer space
for hidden shadows to cling.

For her glory will call forth his.
And his celebration of her healing
will tear open the last vestiges of his shame,
until his own light sings back to hers,
undiminished, unafraid.

This was never a conquest.
It was always a coronation.
It was always the Gospel written in flesh.

It was always love.

---

Movement Two: Standing in the Breach

He stands now,
at the trembling edge
where blood and water meet spirit.

He does not flinch at her unraveling.
He does not cover her nakedness in shame.
He does not grasp at her breaking,
nor reach to hasten her healing.

He stands.

A living shield.
A silent witness.
A priest without altar or knife.

He understands:
his strength is not proven
by his power to fix—
but by his power to wait.

To watch as Love Himself
tends the wound,
cradles the scar,
renews the soul.

To endure the terror of powerlessness
without collapsing into control.

This—
this is his glory:
that he can behold her agony,
and still believe
that the end of her suffering
will not be death,
but birth.

That the light swelling beneath her skin
will one day eclipse even the memory of the blade.

And in that waiting,
he too is cut open.

He too is pierced by the same water,
the same fire,
the same song of new creation.

And he knows:
only a man who can stand silently in the breach,
bearing her vulnerability without corrupting it,
is worthy to walk beside the woman
reborn by the touch of the Living God.

He does not steal her resurrection.
He bears it.

He does not name her rising.
He joins it.

---

Movement Three: The Ascension of Two

They do not walk out of the garden
as they once did—
naked and ashamed,
separated by fear,
carrying fig leaves sewn from survival.

They rise now
fully clothed in light—
not light borrowed,
not light stolen,
but light born from wounds
washed clean in sacred water.

She stands,
not above him,
not behind him,
but beside—

her beauty no longer weaponized,
her tenderness no longer bartered.

And he—
he no longer hides behind strength,
no longer confuses sacrifice with silence,
no longer fears her radiance
as a threat to his crown.

They do not complete one another.
They honor what was completed
before time ever breathed.

She holds the memory of Eden.
He bears the ache of its return.

And together—
they offer the altar of their becoming
to the One who formed them both.

This is not romance.
This is restoration.

This is not power.
This is presence.

This is the kind of union
that does not dim under pressure,
does not wither under attention,
does not fracture when seen.

It is the kind
that makes the darkness jealous.

Because when man and woman
stand in full light together,
wounds lanced,
glory rising—
the Garden itself begins
to hum with memory..

And God walks there once more.

I chased a river that flowed not for me,
A desert thirst, in need of a touch,
But it never quenched, nor did it set me free—
A ghost of water, the hollow's crutch.

Yet still I ran, for the race was the relief,
And the thirst was never gone,
The closer I came, the deeper my grief,
But I knew, I knew, I had to move on

One side craves the fleeting touch,
Another longs for something real,
Both of them, a tangled clutch,
Waging war inside my mind's steel.

I feel the pull, the burn, the tug,
Both sides whispering to my soul—
One says, "Stay," the other says, "Let go,"
And I am left, alone, with no control

The screen glows with false embrace,
A fleeting balm to soothe my pain,
A world of warmth in pixel’s grace,
But as it fades, so does the gain.

The comfort, fleeting, like morning mist,
It wraps me up, then fades away—
But in that warmth, my heart persists,
To search for solace, come what may

Beyond the Glass
I seek a hand I cannot touch,
A voice that whispers through the screen,
In virtual spaces, I crave so much,
The love I’ve never yet seen.

But still, I reach, I yearn, I chase,
For something more than pixel's light—
I long to find a sacred space,
Where hearts can meet beyond the night

What am I but fragments, torn,
Pieces scattered in the dust?
I need to rebuild, from what I’ve mourned,
Relearn the way, and find the trust.

I see the cracks, but there’s no fear,
Only a chance to fill the space—
To build anew, to reappear,
To find my strength, to find my place

A clash of needs, a war of wants,
One says to chase the fleeting thrill,
Another urges, “Wait, be strong,”
The heart is torn, the soul stands still.

For what is comfort but a cage?
And what is pain but growth’s sweet sting?
To choose the short-term for the wage,
Or face the future, and let it sing?

I wander through the uncertain haze,
The road unknown, but filled with choice,
A path unmarked, in shadowed maze,
I seek a light, I seek a voice.

What is it all, but one grand test?
The answers fade before my eyes—
But in the struggle, in the quest,
I find the truth beneath the lies

I stare into the glass that cracks,
And find a face I do not know—
The cracks are me, but not the facts,
The truth is hidden in the glow.

Who am I, when all is gone?
A shadow lost, a broken dream?
But in the void, I carry on,
For in my mind, I still may gleam.

I wish i was memorable
I wish i wasn’t passed by
i wish i wasn’t brushed over -
by the wandering eye
I wish i held interest for a moment or two
i wish i was seen by them or by you
i wish my presence had afterimages
i wish they remembered my differing visages
but i sit just below the horizon
out of view out of sight
i’m veiled in shadow absent of light
i am no siren
i lack the right bite
i wish i was memorable
but maybe that’s not for me
maybe a presence is something i simply cannot be

Oh dark eyes
With skin sagging mounts
Feed me your love
If you would remain open.

Cherish your soul
It's tired and dark
I'll feed it my love
If I could bear witnessing it.

Curtains closed
In your bedroom
And I would knock
If you would answer.

You should open your eyes
Open your soul
Open your window.
Because I would give you a world's worth of love.