Sunday, November 18, 2018

a wisp of the story

This morning I have burrowed myself into a crevice in the hill to watch golden rivers trickle across the landscape.

There’s a story in my head, and it never ends. Sometimes when I’m dreaming I can touch the pages. They are soft, but filmy, almost translucent. They slide between my fingers when I try to read them, so I can see the swirly black ink but the words are never clear. The handwriting is familiar. I almost burst into tears every time I wake up, skin tingling with the fading sensations of a story barely out of my reach. It’s a ghost with an outline nearly tangible.

Yesterday I tried to raise my voice, but I hardly made a sound. No one listens to the girl with timid hands and downcast eyes and a tendency to dwell somewhere along the periphery. Or maybe it’s not that they don’t listen, but that she prefers not to be heard. I can pour my thoughts into empty space, whisper an idea to the wind, and receive an affirmable, predictable answer: silence. People are intricate and complex, with unique systems of thought and inclinations of feeling and responses compelled by a thousand differing motives and experiences. Sometimes I am overwhelmed with the sheer weight of the realization that any random passerby also harbors a maze of some kind inside of their head, along with a haze of questions, conclusions, and thick clouds of emotions and convictions and longings. One person stands upon a solid foundation while another sways at the edge of a building that succumbs to the force of the tides. I try hard to tell where people are inside, but we all have mastered the basic masquerade act. Regardless, my mother taught me it isn’t polite to stare.

Faint, pastel blue rivulets leaking from somewhere within your chest: I think that’s what it feels like, to miss a person, a place, or a feeling enough to trigger a physical ache. Golden honeysuckle sunshine dumps into my lap, and I don’t like the way the colors mix, so I pluck a daffodil and hold it to my lips and think in shades of bright yellow hope. Life has changed in rapid successions lately, and I’ve been feeling funny, but there’s a certain peace rooted in my heart to which I can always return. I’m on my hands and knees with dirt in my nails and sweat on my brow, but here, suffocating, lies a spring I must uncover.

The story continues to haunt my dream, but perhaps I delight in chasing it. It’s the thrill that rouses my ingenuity and jolts my lethargic state of mind. I hope I stay awake. The dawn blooms from the traces of the dusk inside of me, and I hope it never dies.

- - - 

It’s mid-afternoon when you arrive, all tousled hair and rosy cheeks and signature dimple.

“Hey there.” You slide down next to me and toss a bottled water at my lap.

I catch it, smiling a little. “Hi. Thanks. Look, you can see the moon.” I twist the cap off with my teeth and nod in the general direction.

You follow my gaze, and you grin when you spot it. “Cool.”

“Yeah. Too bad you weren’t here to see the sunrise this morning. I was swimming in a sea of blended yellow and pink and orange hues."

“Really?” you ask, leaning back into the grass and folding your arms beneath your head.

“Yep.” I chug the water for a few moments. “Oh,” I say, turning to dig through my backpack. “I did get some pictures, actually.” I hand you my phone and lightly touch the daffodil next to your arm.

You stare at the photos until your mouth forms a perfect O. “Wow. That’s awesome. And I bet it was even more awesome in person. I mean, we see pictures of sunsets and sunrises all the time, but experiencing it is a completely different thing."

“Definitely,” I agree, rocking forward and hugging my knees, watching the sky. “And the moon right there, I can never get a picture of it that looks the way it actually is. But even if I could, I like life better when it’s live action than on-screen.”

You're smiling now. “Yeah,” you whisper. “Me too.”

A wisp of the story lies hidden in our words. I tuck it inside for safekeeping, along with your smile.

Thursday, October 11, 2018

because of grace

when my fingertips crested the edge of the cloud i knew i was drifting again, 
but i had been pining so long for the taste of fresh air.
all at once, my lungs remembered to expand and my heart to beat,
and though i kept forgetting my anchor
my anchor never forgot me.

i had written something quite alive:
a fragile, pulsing, breathing thing— 
but no one would ever know, 
because blood rushed from my fingers to my toes
at the thought of another soul
knowing a piece of myself so honest
that it tied my head and heart together.

but my anchor tugged on the heels of my conscience;
it told me to examine my soul.
so, grumbling, i allowed my anchor 
to guide my feet back to the ground
and when i pried open my ribcage 
to my shock i found 
Fear and Pride gripping the reins.

they toyed with my confidence and distorted my vision;
they tore the door to my heart right off its hinges.
they were rebuilding a wall of ice and stone,
one i had finally torn down the year before,
and when their blackened hands groped for my neck
i felt a familiar beckoning creeping upon me,
the Judas kiss before the fall
and so i fled that place.

my anchor found me in a city
where no one knew my name,
but my anchor took my hand 
and led me back to the battlefield.
my anchor chased the darkness away 
and pressed tools into my trembling palms
and together we began
to dismantle the wall again
stone by stone. 

my anchor lifted my chin with the softest touch and said,
“child, because of grace
you may start over 
every morning,” 
and so i did.

shout out to God for never letting go of me and loving me beyond my comprehension even when i’m a rebellious little punk

Thursday, September 27, 2018





  i. we are prodigies of the virtuosity of holding on.

  ii. i can count on one hand the number of times we said goodbye and meant it, and the times we   meant it we never said it. when i’m dangling headfirst over the chasm the angled lines of my face are   caked with ashes of the past, and i cannot help but feel drawn to slip over the edge, to step into a   former skin, to sink into the echoes of another time.

  iii. sometimes life cuts like a knife. it has you leaning against the bathroom counter all trembling lip   and gaping eyes and hazy gray confusion thick like a fog clinging to the interior of your skull, and are   you dramatic? is it dramatic to replay hurt until it is branded to the walls of your mind? is it dramatic   to crave to split open and spill out and never feel it again? is it dramatic? or is it just gritty human   nature to hold on to the exact thing presently tearing you apart?

  iv. open the blinds and let out the breath you’ve been holding. lean against the bathroom sink and spit   out the bitter taste. roll out the bottles of your tears from underneath the bed. smash them against the   walls and watch the glass shatter like your heart did. clean it up and watch the salt turn to crystals   that cling to the drywall. understand that you shine brighter still. sew your heart onto your sleeve and   carry it.

  v. walk through the steps again tomorrow because healing is a process, love.

Sunday, August 26, 2018

stories intertwined

it is not easy to shoulder a celestial sphere

silver - metaphor for pain
Atlas grimaced with silver between his teeth and the sky caving into his shoulders. I offered to carry his burdens, but he refused to allow an exchange of our fates. My tears flooded the crevices between the clouds until I forced myself to stop out of fear that I might add to his pain.

Later that night, my bruised fingers pressed against the stitches in my wings. I welcomed the hurt and screamed my lungs raw because I needed to remember that I was made of blood and bones, not feathers and stardust, and if I swallowed I could taste the silver. Kneeling beside the graveyard, I traced my story into the ashes, and then I wiped it clean.

The morning dawned upon Atlas’s sweaty brow, the lilting pulse of his heartbeat, and the struggling muscles quivering beneath his skin. I said hello, and his smile glinted in the sunlight before it twisted to form his questions. I shook the ashes from my wings and attempted to trace my answers in it, but it was a strenuous task to answer honestly when I did not know which version of the truth he cared for. He expected me to leave within a day, but I ached to help him ease the sky from his shoulders. I knew of how the earth curved beneath the arch of his feet, of how the horizon beckoned to him. Atlas tried to hide it, but his fists clenched in agony, and the universe told me his secrets.

That night, I wept myself hollow until my regrets stained the pages. I knew how to speak in unfurling raging poetry, while Atlas knew how to weave curved lines, like maps between stars, into his words. Neither of us could truly speak to the other. Tracing letters into the ashes was tedious. So I tied the edges of my hair to the stars and spent the nights memorizing constellations. I engraved them into my mind until the twisting cosmic stories had orbits I would push against or slip into. Starblood dried beneath my nails. I awoke to silver winding around my arms and legs and weaving itself beneath my feathers, pooling in my hands, so I drank it. I wanted it to flow from my lips.

Shadows crawled amidst the craters of Atlas's face. I leaned forward, dripping silver, and speaking in his language I persuaded him to allow me to carry the sky for him, if only for a few moments, so that he could heal. I folded my wings against my body and eased the weight of the sky from his back to mine.

The pain was immediate and excruciating. My own sobs echoed within and around me. He begged to take it back and with silver obstructing my vision I refused. The wind sang to him until he fell asleep, and I bore the weight of the sky until he awoke renewed of his strength, and the dawn relieved me. Suddenly, I was the winged girl who had carried the weight of the heavens, and when I looked at Atlas I understood him. The constellations strapped against my ribcage rioted with sympathy. My heart strained along with the rest of my muscles.

satisfying to the first touch but oh did it burn

I stumbled upon Icarus crawling out of the ocean. I knelt beside him, and the remnants of his wings disintegrated at my tough. I asked him, “Do you harbor regret?" and a crooked smile split his face in two halves.

“I harbor a spirit as wild as yours, little bird," he whispered. “There is no space inside of me for regret. Even now, my fingertips cling desperately to the lingering sensation of clutching the sun. There is smoke in my lungs and indents in my spine and melted wax trickling along the borders of my skull and leaking out from between my shattered bones, yet if I were to live a thousand lifetimes I would make the same choice every time." His words make me tremble and laugh and cry. His skin was cracked and broken, but his soul was not.

The next morning, I climbed the sky and seized the sun. Wax did not fasten my wings to my shoulder blades, but nevertheless I burned and wailed and tumbled down to the sea. I felt the impact of my body against the surface of the water; I listened to the wind howling against my ears; I soaked in the pain and inhaled it and understood Icarus. I clawed against the sand and drew myself out of my grave, but it wasn't my grave at all because my wounds healed when mortality should have claimed me. I awoke, and I understood Icarus, but I did not share in his fate.

The little white bird had fingers of steel and feathers coated in ashes now. My nerves trembled with electricity. I pulled the silver from my hair and unwinded it from my wrists, and with it I stitched the holes in my wings. I found myself peeling wax from between my knuckles, but it seemed I could never be rid of it. Atlas clung to my memory like a silver-stained ghost, and Icarus was the melted wax from the wings and the fractures beneath my skin. I could not shake their trials, and I did not want to, but though I had found myself swathed in their strings and tangled in their fates, I could not claim theirs as my own.

I wandered the earth in search of my fate. I collected pieces of stories I fell into, and they became such vital elements of my heart, I could not imagine my blood pumping without them. One day, I scrambled to the lake's edge and leaned forward, and rippling across the surface I found a creature wide-eyed and starved for new horizons, with wings tangled in scars and flaws and charts of beloved constellations. Centuries ago she had had a smooth complexion and wary eyes; once she had been a white winged bird, but now she had been scorched. She had touched life with her bare hands.

oftentimes myth is born as a thread between reality and the minds grasping to understand it

One, two, three, four. I forced staggering breaths in and out, counting them, grounding myself. My bones were tender and hollow, Icarus had his jagged smile painted to the backs of my eyelids, and I could not stop tasting silver. I was wandering aimlessly through the mountains when I found a girl spitting clay into the river, her tresses interlaced with flowers, fragmented pottery scattered at her feet. While Icarus had been devoid of regret, Pandora was saturated with it. It resided in the tremor of her glazed stare, and leaked from the marks in her palms.

“I held them," she slurred, her voice dripping agony. “They scraped at the edges of the box and at the weak lining of my conscience. I listened. I released them. Now I am not the only soul they haunt." Her gaze roved over my wings. “You have shaken hands with them already. You know what the backlash feels like. I see your bruises, the testimonials of your pain, and you should know that I am the one to blame."

A curt laugh tore itself from my lips, startling even myself. I replied, “You act as if you are the worst of your kind. You feed yourself lies and spit them out only to consume them again. The release was indeed by your hands, but in a parallel universe the person is not you, and the same choice is made. This tragedy is in humanity's blood. Do not give yourself so much credit."

“My sole purpose has been to carry darkness into the world," Pandora moaned.

The bitter tang of silver rose in the back of my throat. “Do not summarize your story as a single action," I retorted. “Listen closely now. Have you forgotten what else you carried? I have hope buried in my bones, knotted between my tendons, spilling from my lips. I tie it into my words and weave it between my fingers. Without it I would be lost."

In response, her knees dipped to the floor, eyes wide with the realization that dawns upon someone who has recalled a forgotten piece of their history. “Oh, yes," she breathed. “Borders of ice and stone encircle my heart. I fear I must break myself apart to find the hope buried inside of me. Is it worth it?"

I threw my head back, laughing, as I stretched my tattered wings and flaunted my scars. “I have ached. I have burned. I have bled. I have fallen, and I have screamed, and I have cried, and I am alive. Now I savor the sunlight as it caresses my skin, and I drink in the sight of the stars, and I grin at the feel of my heartbeat drumming beneath my fingertips. I am a being who craves light. I am drawn like a moth to a flame, and pain has merely intensified my longing for it. But if you do not allow the cold inside of you to thaw, the light will not reach you. Is it worth it?" I lingered on her question for a moment, subtly tilting my head to the side, a gesture unique to the little white bird I was: seemingly innocent, bland on the surface, with oceans of questions and stories lurking beneath. An image of Icarus flooded my mind, with his broad smile and eyes boring into mine, and the words he used that drove me to reach for the sun just as he had. “Yes,” I said, finally, to the doubting woman. “If I were to live a thousand lifetimes I would choose the light every time.”

I was a wordcrafter. I was a creature marred by the weight of the sky and the bite of the sun and the drag of regret because I was an empath, because I had touched others and instinctually carried their stories, because there dwelt within me an innate desire to connect and to understand and to love. Parallel to it flowed a longing to learn my own fate. Was I forever destined to be the poet and never the poetry? Would I only ever exist in my dreams and makeshift realities?

The years blurred together into decades. I was aware of my body's aging with time, of the fact that Death stepped closer each day, but I did not fear the inevitable. The wrinkles in my skin and the strain of my joints and the thinning of my hair were irrelevant details. I remained consistent in my refusal to live as a skeleton of my potential, and undeterred in my quest of pouring myself out to the world forever and forever and forever. Until the end of my days, I would seek the light and draw it close, and give it away. I listened to the stories of every friend and kept them chronicled along the shelves of my heart, and I never lost them, and I did not forget, even when remembering caused silver to trickle down my temple. There were nights when it gushed, and I stood trembling and alone in the darkness, bent over the shattered pieces of myself from yesteryear. I did not forget. Silver doused my broken frame, and it overflowed from my eyes. But light dripped from the slivers in my heart until they were pried open to become gaping holes, from which it cascaded like a river, and it overcame the darkness. The collection of stories abounded inside of me and carried on for hundreds of miles, and I treasured each one, and I remembered.

Death crept upon me with beckoning fingers, and my wings faded to dust. My dreams slipped from my clutches, and I let them go because my time had run out. I waited for my world to fold inward and to never open again. I listed upon my fingers all the lives I had seen grace the earth, all the crossed strings, all the faces and fates. My only regret was the stories yet to be told.

I had always thought of Death in terms of gradual, hazy, drifting, as a metaphor for the feeling of letting go. Instead, Death dawned upon me as fire licking my fingertips. Then Death was flame swallowing me whole, and my questions disintegrated on my tongue. In a blinding plethora of heat, in a magnificent flare, my body was reduced to a pile of ashes, from which I arose a new creature. Death had released its hold. My past was a heap of smoking rubble. In light of this revelation, I blazed across the earth with a touch of fire that did not consume, but ignited. Life flourished within my veins and stained the silver gold. My restored wings grew wider and bolder, able to reach new heights, outstretched and eager, longing to soar. I was a creature drinking light and spilling it out, drenched in hope and fortitude.

I found my name and tied it to my forehead.


Friday, July 20, 2018

train of thought

it appears we are restless creatures
for when the light reaches 
our nerves bloom flowers
only to wither after our bodies
withdraw back to the shadows

    She turns off the lights and flings
    herself onto the bedspread, eyes 
    half-closed and focused on the
    afternoon sun creeping through
    the blinds.

    She drapes silence around her
    shoulders as if it is a shroud,
    and then she begins to f
                                                   into the endless chasm of her mind.

     If she sinks deep enough
     perhaps she can convince herself that
     she is transcendent
     and her outstretched fingers will pass
     through the windows
     and she will dissolve into the
     you know,
     the expanse of time and space
     people are always trying to
     cram into a box.

 she chases a story as if it is
a runaway kite
and all she desires 
is to wind the string
around her heart 
and then to release it
and send herself spinning into vertigo

She does not want to turn in

                               s         i
                               e            r
                                l     c
                                                      forever, but rather for a short while,
                                                      only until she finds what 
                                                      she would not have found otherwise. 

      Sometimes people need to wander the same road
      many times in order to find what they are looking for,
      or perhaps what they are meant to stumble upon
      because they tend to miss it the first time,
      and the second, and the third.

      She is quite familiar with this notion,
      for oftentimes what she needed was 
      right in front of her, and she did not
      realize it until later.

      But always there eventually 
      arrives the moment when 
      it is time to move on.

she fabricates tales out of material of the past 
to which she can cling
pretending that what was meant to end 
did not
and there were no consequences for it
but such lovely lies bring her pleasure that is fleeting
followed by a deep ache that is not

            No one ever told her
            youth could feel so
            restless. Or maybe
            someone did, but 
            she failed to listen.

                             The weight of empty space is heavy on her heart,
                             yet she savors it. There is room for her memories
                             here. The scrapbook opens in her head and she 
                             mentally thumbs through the pages, drinking in
                             the images, the sounds, the tastes and scents,
                             every single piece of the moments: dry asphalt 
                             and teary goodbyes and walking away and
                             hazy car rides where the hours blur together
                             and thoughts run in thousands of different
                             directions at the same time; nights of
                             skipping through the parking lot with 
                             arms linked together underneath starry 
                             skies and searching out constellations
                             in the middle of a wide field pretending 
                             everyone is not about to part ways;
                             dancing and sweating and bursting with
                             joy and moving to the beat of the music
                             together and wide smiles behind sparklers
                             and running into the gym when it’s too
                             hot outside and songs and conversations
                             and pages and pages and pages of 
                             her scrapbook that never end; she
                             keeps delving further and further
                             back and she can’t pinpoint exactly
                             when she started crying, but that
                             doesn’t matter because when she 
                             is alone and has fallen somewhere 
                             deep inside of herself vulnerability
                             is natural.

    She breathes in
    and slides her 
    hands into
    patches of 

      Her fingers brush 
      against the small
      wooden instrument
      and she pulls it into
      her lap, strumming 
      slow and faint and
      gazing at the blinds 

             The natural light
             brings tenderness,
             in a sense.

if i was a book i would have missing pages
smeared ink and unfinished sentences and a worn spine
i would be torn at every edge and my cover might be faded
but i could paint you a story only i would know how to tell
if you were to listen

    The future is somewhere in the near distance, 
    obscured by a heavy uncertain fog she either
    wants to sweep back like a curtain or hide 
    away from, burying herself within the safe
    and familiar clutches of her childhood, 
    to wander in the same circle forever
    because she has already been given
    and taught so much from that path.

    But youth tastes like restlessness, too,
    a thirst to run and find what lies ahead,
    a burning mix of fear and curiosity, of 
    anxiety and eagerness. She has felt it 
    rushing within herself, and she has seen
    it flash before in the eyes of her friends. 
    One day has many various implications, 
    and an equal amount of apprehension and
    excitement, especially if it is taken into
    consideration the fact that each individual 
    future has been masterfully, intricately,
    thoughtfully crafted.

        Years of memories continue to replay 
        in her mind, but she knows she is not
        the only one filled to the brim with them.
             The ukulele shifts in her arms,
             and she runs her thumb across the strings,
             listening to the chords resonate
             and thinking that it does not know 
             how to sound sad.

               She has been unraveling this whole time,
               working her way through the twisting 
               passages of crisscrossed inner-workings
               pulsing beneath her skin, and she finds 
               that often it is better to dive into oneself 
               in the light than in the dark.

                  Maybe there is a reason for a daydream 
                  to be something nice, and for a nightmare
                  to be the opposite? 
                       She has questions with answers
                       she hasn’t found yet, but that
                       doesn’t stop her from asking.

i find you in a surreal place where we can start over

i drone on about the beauty of the clouds
as you seek out the earthy fractures in the pavement;
the both of us mourn in our own fragile ways,
kindred spirits sinking together with a sigh
a gentle exhalation of appreciation
for what it feels like to be understood
like we have finally found the oxygen we once lost

i wake up gasping for breath

It only takes an instant, and 
and she is  f
                                   tumbling through the clouds,
                                   crashing through the atmosphere, 
                                   lunging for a daydream, a spiraling
                                   train of thought, an anchor, a lifeline,
                                   something, anything, to draw her back
                                   to the present, to wake her up and set 
                                   her mind on one, singular, solitary 
                                   task, whether it be her studies or her 
                                   cluttered drawers or the hopelessly
                                   lengthy list of everything she needs 
                                   to do, but instead she drops straight d
                                                                                                 and there is no end to the falling;
                                                                                                 she longs to find sleep, to sink into 
                                                                                                 the reliable emptiness that has a
                                                                                                 beginning and an end.
    She doesn’t know when
    she put away her instrument,
    but it is on the other side of 
    the room now. 

    She turns to her phone
    and finds a song, and 
    with it drifting into the
    space that has begun to 
    feel suffocating, she finds
    the strength to force her 
    feet over the side of the 
    bed and to the floor, 
    hands groping for the 
    window, lifting the blinds, 
    reaching for the light.

    It had never left her.

i feel my Father's gentle touch on my wrists 
His omnipresence anchors me to reality
i will not lose myself today

you are allowed to be
both a masterpiece
and a work in progress

Friday, July 6, 2018

before you go

Before you go
Collect your fingerprints from this place 
So they do not become the ghosts of you
For I know you once made yourself at home
But I cannot have you lingering 
Where you no longer tread

Before you go
Erase the lines of your history
From my palms
And take back your stories, dear storyteller
So I will not catch them slipping from my own tongue

Before you go
Retrace every path you have wandered here
Tell the wind that you stand upon foreign land
Until you believe it yourself
And perhaps a breeze will kindly efface
Your footprints

Before you go
Clear out these crowded rooms
For they are stocked full of memories 
I cannot walk without tripping over
So please reclaim every piece of yourself that resides 
Within the mansion of my mind

Before you go
Wipe the angry tears from my eyes
And explain again to me the art of letting go
But most importantly
Do not ever
Leave without saying goodbye

I'll spend hours trying to write something and I get nothing, and then this spontaneous creation springs into existence
so I’ll get back to you when I find an explanation for that

Thursday, June 7, 2018

river of stone

The night encased the moon child in a silver robe 
As it soaked in her whisper, where shall I go? 
To the river, it said, with a curling ethereal touch 
It had breaths so close she felt lilac tears 
Shivering in its soul 

The forest opened a gnarly embrace to receive her 
For it had carved the arched outlines of her heartstrings into ancient oak
It said, I feel your ache, tenderfoot, and my paths are inclined to your footfall 
Where shall I carry you now? and she replied, to the river, 
With a voice fragile and dripping velvet 

Skeletal tree fingers swept against her skin and guided her to where 
The foliage sloped and dew blossomed on her lashes 
Her knees bowed with the trees as she listened for the river’s poetry 
She waited for it to wash across her bent figure and cleanse her of many sorrows 
But the water never came, only the wind’s guttural moan

Kneeling girl with the tight lips and hollow eyes, what is it you seek? 
She answered, the night sent me here 
The wind shuddered and clutched her in its arms 
And it repeated the question, what is it you seek?
The lie I do not know rolled cleanly off her tongue

She had never lied to the forest before
Her betrayal was a gliding knife that sliced it open and gave it life
Springing forth veins that drew her back into its clutches as it howled,
Child of the skybreather, have you thrown your honesty to the wolves?
Have they sunk their teeth into your throat? 

She struggled in vain before she opened her mouth and confessed 
I have replaced my thoughts with theirs and so I have lost my mind
And I have wandered for so many years I have forgotten where I am from
Now I want to feel my secrets unravel from my spine
There is a bitter flavor in my mouth and I want to taste the sun

The forest released her and threw her against the riverbed
Look, the wind cried, look at the river of stone
This is your heart, these are your bones,
A cracked and shriveled wasteland
Where is your love, child, where did it go?

In response she testified
That she had loved and loved and loved and lost
She had bled herself dry and weathered storms that
Battered and hardened her heart
And now if she closed her eyes she was walking barren land

What is it you seek? asked the wind
My home, she sobbed, where is my home?
I have found the river of stone and there are no tides 
I have only found questions that leave my doubts open and raw
Oh, my eyes are open now, and they are burning, burning, burning

A cold heart thawed beside the ghost of the river
The lionhearted girl had lost her roar and she ached for it
Her insides were numb and learning again how to feel
And if she listened she could hear a voice breathe into her soul
It is courageous to have a soft heart in a cruel world

Kneeling by the river of stone she invited love into her heart again
She said, wipe your feet at the door and listen to me tell of your worth
Let me reflect the love that has already been bestowed upon me
Because the night sent me to the river of stone and before my own eyes 
Grace flooded the wasteland, grace filled my soul

But the night had not finished yet 
The wind drew her beneath its billowing wings and sighed
Child, what is it you seek? 
I am seeking my home, she answered, and I will reach it one day
But it is far beyond this river of stone
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