What purity is rendered from the wreckage of these days?
Hearts torn asunder and splayed across a dying world;
A world that falls like dreams do
When the light hits hard across the room.

And I want to hold something heavy and cold,

Like the smooth stones at the base of the current’s flow,

But I am grasping air

And my breath weaves a river that dissipates
Like the memory of snow
Across the western peaks
Before the harsh rays of late spring
Melt these sculpted constructs down to nothing but
Granite and bone,

And the scintillating potential of the soul,

Like a wound that festers,
Or is rendered,
Into something mercilessly scarred
But somehow, more beautiful,
And whole.  

In the breaking, there is death,

And I question whether that is all there is.

Sometimes, the breaking never ends and all I see is a failure to save her. The darkness claims her over and over again in my mind and
There is the sharp absence of a savior,

Anywhere, here on earth,
Or later,

And it certainly wasn’t me.

So, is that what this life will be?
Or can we render light from the wreckage of these days,
If we were to drop down and crawl on bended knees
To some higher place

Where there is redemption in defeat

And a new life
Fresh and green
Sprouting from the remnants of our own humility
In which we must now anchor

Everything?