Allow me to compose for You, for I called You a poem knowing that You in all You are are art. You are words dripping from my tongue, satiating A thirst for medium form, and style, Life. I called You, Poetry. You showed up late and underdressed, A sight to behold. All glory, In the sunlight.
I read my journals after I finish writing on their last pages before putting them away. This journal was particularly heavyhearted. It spans the beginning of a grief process to a hospitalization. This entry was written in the throes of an existentialist faith crisis that I’m still wading through. Needless to say, it’s dark. Though […]
Thirsty trees sprout Up from the earth awaiting the truth of summer rains. John 3:31-36