The space between each breath and beat,
is vacant now, a hollowed nest.
Where once wings fluttered soft and meek,
dust now settles down to rest.

The raider knew not of my plight.
With twisted key, she opened wide
the place where butterflies take flight;
the cage in which my heart resides.

The butterflies they danced and flew.
Some filled the mouth with words unsaid.
But lips were sealed, so numbers grew;
the crowding forced them out instead.

The ripple of their wings fell still,
their sprightly quiver fled my chest.
She drew them out, with time and skill.
I spat out love; truth wrapped in jest.        
                          
When all was said, the flutter waned
From love to hate, the din grew weak.
Though her hold lessened, her face remained
in the space between each breath and beat.

For Thou alone my heart sings
O Lord of Lords, King of Kings;
how can I love Thee as I ought,
Thy love I have so long sought.

When I contemplate Thy goodness to me,
I am in awe and enveloped in humility
that Thou O God from infinity
saw fit to create one like me.

My heart overflows for love of Thee
like swelling waters of the blue-green sea,
like the roaring waves splashing ashore;
it is Thee O my God whom I adore.
Permit that I may love Thee evermore.

When my earthly life comes to an end,
my sinful wounded soul wilt Thou mend?
May I one day behold Thy radiant Face
and reap the joy of inestimable grace?

How I pray this will be so, O Lord,
as to Thee alone all Praise I accord;
to be in Thy company one of these days
hearing choirs resound in Praise
to Thy Holiness and Grace
in that heavenly Place
and behold, I gaze
upon Thy most
beautiful
Face.




© Carmela M. Patterson, All rights reserved.

I write letters to the ones that matter
To the ones that care
Even passing on a flight of stairs
I look
She looks
Our lives could be words in a story book
I read her face
She reads mine
A poet wouldn’t believe how much we rhyme
I hold her
She holds me
I wonder if this is all dream
Each page of mine intwined in hers
As we fall asleep until our yet to be written verse

I'm up to 35.
35 despaired pages, each turned with a painfully waning chance of happiness.
I weep for this diary
The crisp-white pages are darker than dark, tattooed with pain
Written in ink, but meant in blood.
(I'm starting to wonder if I have any left in my veins)