Chaos. Unrest.
The enemies of peace
and unwanted guests
in my mind. Please cease!
They suffocates and bury,
accomplices invisible.
But I’m too blind to see them
because I’m trying be visible.
Unbreaking clouds of confusion
covering my view
of the conclusion
of things I wish were untrue.
Death, too soon,
has clinched your daughter,
before her first birthday ballon.
I thought you were good, Father.
No clarity. Only doubt
that anything good
can come from this drought.
(No soul food.)
Yet wilderness waste,
this land of languish,
is not wasted
or aimless anguish.
A view of the distance
far off, but I can see
my own existence
is vastly beyond me.
A soft, still silence:
an offer of rest
to quiet the self-reliance
that sits heavy on my chest.
An unexpected providence:
You’re present in my pain.
It’s my only confidence
that any of this can be working gain.
All that haunts me
is a gracious design
to fit me for eternity—
to myself resigned,
and in Your image refined.
