Peace, Child

she has stories that fill her mind to the brim,
forlorn words that drift about and
overflow from her eyes.

she has whispers that keep her up at night,
memories that replay and regenerate,
but always she sees
people, people, real people, inexistent people,
people who laugh and talk and move in her mind’s eye.

threads and tendrils of life
spiraling about in her brain,
stray connections of colored patterns,
blank patterns that aren’t really patterns at all,
yet somehow her mind plays with even cold darkness.

she has musings she longs to
fit on the paper,
crush between letters and
soak through ink
but sometimes
even paper can’t handle her mind.

she lunges at wisps of brilliance,
or seemingly brilliance,
but they slip between the spaces in her mental fingers,
spaces she thought she had closed.

she wonders of so much
or so little, it seems to her.

sometimes her mind is chaos in a bottle,
swirling and twisting and turning and screaming and
she is the girl between the glass,
trying to cover her ears but it
doesn’t stop the thoughts —
thoughts and words and swirling twisting abstract figures that
somehow speak her language.

oh her mind is complicated,
her thoughts complicated,
her words complicated,
a chaotic rubble where she stands and seeks peace,
or the essence of peace.

her flesh does not know peace, true peace,
peace from a screaming mind fed by a
screaming world;
her soul thirsts for it.

she wanders for awhile,
lost and confused,
afraid of her own doubts,
until she hears a sound unlike all else.

hungry, hungry, she falls to her knees
crying God please,
calm the chaos, remove the madness.

hungry soul.
seeking eyes.
longing heart.

ancient pages of truth stirred by
trembling, searching hands.
another prayer.
a voice.

rest here, child.

in His arms
her raging storm is calm,
her chaotic mind is flooded with tranquility,
her soul is filled to the brim with peace.

suddenly her thoughts,
her words,
her stories,
have truly happy endings.

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A Song

I was listening
To the words
Strung along a melody,
Painted upon a canvas of silence,
Where an intricate pattern was woven and
Wrapped about my mind

I was listening
To the words
Which were honest words, raw words,
Words that penetrated deep inside
To place where I could hear them;
Flawed, in a sense, yet flawless

I was listening
To the words
That told of stories—
Trials and tribulation,
A journey well over a thousand steps—
Frozen in each simple sound

I was listening
To the words
That tell of us,
That tell of our lives
And of our God

I was listening
To the words
That reminded me of hope,
That reminded me of the journey,
That diverted my eyes from the distractions,
That reminded me of who I am
And who my God is
And why I am here

I was listening
To the words,
Words that
(Though written by a different hand)
Told parts of my story,
Extracted memories once locked away,
Sang a tune of which I had forgotten the lyrics

Because, as I walked,
I was listening
To the words
Of a song