A sweet breeze sways the trees
but it’s a dry and barren desert inside me.
I’m infected by with a disease
that despite my unease, I can’t appease.
Flowers bloom, even the moon is new,
but inside I’m black and blue—
scars and wounds like tattoos
I wish were untrue. Wash away with shampoo.
I raise hands to praise, fall down to pray,
but I’ve been flatlining for days—
a dissonance I can’t dismiss.
We aren’t supposed to exist like this.
I admit I’m a pretender, but please, God, remember
Your promise endures, like an ember.
Through my dark, its light is a tether,
glowing hope against hope forever.
I think You’re late. I don’t like to wait,
but something about it dilates
my soul and reclaims real estate
for Your glory to decorate.