A dry and arid place
when the oasis is in sight
but held at a distance
by circumstance and happenstance
twin dictators of mood and heart.
To be in black on the Lord’s day
In a walled room devoid of light,
cringing within shadowed soul
wounds weeping
a hearts cry away from God.
To be in black on the Lord’s day.
When all the screams of life
deafen in tidal flood
blind in binding fear.
A dumb breath-sucked vacuum
where life is somewhere else
where reality is a God away
and these limbs are useless to move me there.
To be in black on the Lord’s day.
When the spirit battles to say its yes
to all things good and love-cared
and somehow falls under the weight of effort.
To be in my dark room seeing your light
its single ray stretching to me
inextinguishable
penetrating
loving.
And the heart makes its cry
on the Lord’s day.
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