It's more akin to touch than to sight ...or sound

A focused vibration
                           felt within my bones

My eyes can't spot it
My ears don't detect even the smallest whisper when it begins

And at its crescendo, I'm buzzing and sharp


And aloud, I say, "Yes LORD?  Your servant is here!"

And then it subsides
And it's no longer clear


Did I feel that?
Was it real?

I doubt it;

I feel...

That even if angels came down to my street
And lifted me up - right off of my feet

And for minutes, held me airborne
Two yards off the ground!
I'm certain, the moment that I was brought down...

I would doubt my own senses
That's why I can't be
The chosen, the faithful,
Who's allowed to see

Prone to scoff at the stories
Of loved ones who'd swear
There is something much bigger than ourselves out there

Prone to wander and wallow
Prone to spit, not to swallow
The stories of old
As I stray from the fold