Subscribe to RSSGrace
Grace
She soars at the top above us all
Looking upon clouds that hold the angels as they dream
Still she is uncertain of her position in this grand scheme.
In midnight hours in my arms she speaks
Heavy with expectation she exclaims
The rivers will over flow
We’ll breathe air once more as if God himself into our lungs blew
And tip toe through rolling hills of grasses green.
In trees once extinct nesting birds will feed their young
And sing songs in languages long forgotten.
My ears sting with every word but I dare not hint at my dismay.
Where are you my love?
In this paradise where are you?
Silence falls like her eyes from the ceiling to the floor
For through rose coloured glasses she holds out hope for the lost
But denies herself the same grace.
A cloudy heaven rains upon her hell filling filthy rivers to their breaking point.
Wings that once fluttered are grounded to the earth
As dry bones laying open to the elements so too is her soul empty and exposed.
She has forgotten the sound of a pleasured heart beat and sigh of relief.
Like long lost tongues it has been written but never again heard.
How?
How does she do it?
How does she hold out hope for everyone but herself or
Find beauty in the smallest of things then fail to see her own?
Joan of Arc inside Morton’s Pride
3 People have left comments on this post
May 7, 2008 - 01:05:07Oh. Wow. This just clamped onto my heart and hung there for a long while. I’m not sure when it will release. This is beautiful…and haunting…thought-provoking…and sorrowful. Really, Wow!
Thank you. It was written for a friend of mine who really does see beauty in everything but just can’t see it in herself.
Thanks again,
Austin
This is hauntingly beautiful . . . and it’s also beautiful how you can see in your friend the beauty she can’t see in herself.