The Cry of an Awakened Soul

5:53 PM


   Why does the ache of melancholy produce this subservient, effervescent, awakening possibility in my mind?
Why does the thrill of a half-lived fate claw and tear at my senses as if there were no tomorrow?
And why do You lie so deeply down there?
You: unknown, incomprehensible yet ever so beloved, God.
You are my uncharted territory, my distressingly sought after homeland, my deepest sense of security, the pillars, no, the foundation of this temple that is my life.
Why do you inspire and ignite only to tear away? Why do you impact with all the devastation of an unawaited earthquake only to leave me longing for just a whisper, just a glance of your eyes to shatter my illusions and break my reverie?
Why do you capture only to release?
Why do you clip wings in order to make them fly?
And why do you astound my every heartbeat with that clanging, bellowing, beckoning call of “Come my love, my lovely one, come.”
Lovely. That word that haunted and defined the figure in the mirror striking pain with pinpoint accuracy and leaving a wake of sorrow unleashed by a tidal wave of grief.
Even in your call you wound me with a love by which I am bound.
I am bewitched.
I am begeistert; struck dumb and stirred to my soul’s senses attempting to reach out to the one who knew me when I was without form or shape, an idea of an idea.
Call me once more. Repeat my name with that tuneful voice that surpasses my thoughts and calms my wandering ways.
Enter the stage of my life and precipitate with falling beauty the canvas of my soul.
We are the players, only you and I.
The cast of an unforgettable romance,
The dance of Creator verses Created
The fragrance of a breeze takes away
My soul’s sin’s rank and replaces
Ashes with Beauty and Weakness with
And so I, with faltering steps follow your path of remembrance, tracing somewhat vainly the curves of your life, hoping against hope to attain something this fallen creature never dared dream: Joy.
And so I, standing on the edge of the cliff that is my life, that dangerously fragile present ready to be swept away by the slightest breath of wind, wait.
I wait for I know not what.
Perhaps it is the dim knowledge that the voice that called me into being will one day call me home.
Here am I; your battle stricken warrior.
Your wearied speck of dust.
Forget me not for I am yours. 

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