Remember

A sliver thread

Of thoughts

that runs through souls.

Why am I here,

they whisper,

and why are you?

For what purpose do we breath

and laugh

and cry?

Others would think that

Chance is the god to be served.

That Chance is what gave us souls

and a mind to exercise

a will.

Chance is what makes us

question why we are here.

Why we are.

I look into the eye of Chance,

an empty chalice of

man’s wisdoms,

our greatest minds,

and I see nothing.

Nothing but the keen of

a mother who has lost her only child.

Nothing but an empty vessel

to crawl inside and

beat the walls of.

The god Chance stares bleakly past me,

ignoring my questions,

my pleadings,

my demands for answers

for why I cannot see

beyond the reach of my fingers,

and why I cannot know

the secrets of the present that

I used to call my future;

I weep at its feet.

Why do you speak to that stone

as if it will answer?

I raise my face,

seeking a voice in my head.

I am its servant, I gasp,

it is my lord. 

My world is in shadow

by the breadth of a great eagle

blocking the sun. It cries

and I cry,

clutching my ears.

Feathers run through my vision,

and I no longer

see what I was serving.

Wings envelope me,

pull me close.

Daughter, 

are you listening?

I do not answer.

Daughter! The voice thunders

in my head,

in my heart.

Do you believe that 

I am capable? 

Or do you wish 

to  sit at the feet 

of this thing you made 

in place of me? 

—-

The noise of questions,

the cacophony of will

and doubt

subsides into a

soft hum.

An ultimatum.

And I listen.

Do you believe that I 

am competent

to make the life created

by my hands

worth living? 

Do you believe I will not

forget?

That you will never

be small enough to slip

through my fingers?

Am I faithful? 

And

in that stillness of His right arm

I ponder two answers.

And I know then that

there is only one.

I release my whip

and reigns

I have used to direct,

from my cramped hands.

I can no longer find my stone God.

I can no longer hear it

whispering of fear,

or uncertainty.

I close my eyes as I feel

a stirring

in my throat.

With my freed palms

I reach up and

remember

how to sing.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s