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.


Day Thirty: The Meaning of Change

The Meaning of Change

Change comes like a thief in the night,
snatching your dreams and making you watch as they dissolve before your eyes.
Piece by piece it all falls apart as the clock scolds you harshly,
tick tock, tick tock, tick tock.

Watch as the minute hand moves ever so slowly
but ever so quickly.
Watch and soon the minutes will turn to hours;
the hours will turn to days and the days will turn to weeks
and the weeks to years
and why are you still sitting here?

Change unfolds all around as time moves on
and as your tears fall
and as your mouth smiles
and as your eyes close
and as your body grows old
and as the days turn cold.

When change comes and grabs you by the hand
will you follow with a courageous smile
or will it drag you as you mope?
Will you whisper
“bring it on”
or will you cry
“let me go?”

And when the change comes and goes,
I bet you’ll turn around and look back
and you’ll realize something:

For if that had not happened,
what would you have lost instead?

Day Eighteen: She Likes to Watch the Rain

She Likes to Watch the Rain

A girl presses her nose against the window,
tracing the scurrying raindrops with her eyes as they
race down the glass pane.
She likes to watch them race,
silently cheering them on,
wondering why the clear droplets are in such a hurry.

They seem to slither,
she notices,
like little round snakes. They grow and stretch as they run,
leaving a trail of tiny, baby raindrops.

She watches with studious eyes,
unable to pull away,
for she is fascinated by the rain.
She loves the sound of it, the smell of it;
she loves the way it slithers, the way it slants in the wind.

She soon realizes her breath has fogged the glass,
and she draws back to wipe it away.
But then
when she peers out again,
the droplets have reached the bottom of the windowsill
and slipped over the edge so that she can see them no more.

It is then she closes her eyes
and listens to the lullaby
of a thousand gentle pitter-patters against the roof,
the gutter,
the glass.

It surrounds her,
sings to her,
with the occasional rumble of thunder.
The lightning sends a sort of happy thrill shuddering through her thin frame,
but she likes it.

Her toes stretch to reach the ground
as she slowly sways herself back and forth in the old,
wooden rocking chair.
The motion is soothing,
and it provokes deep thought for such a profound evening,
even for such a little girl.

Moments later, she opens her eyes–
to find that three more raindrops are racing.
Her nose returns to the glass pane.

For she likes to watch the rain.

Day Six: Does She?


Does She?

She strives to be who she was never meant to be,
struggles to find acceptance where there is no meaning.

She works for a lost cause where she will always fail,
drinks water that will never quench her thirst, but only make it worse.

For she searches for the answers, for the meaning for life,
but does she know how blind she is?

She complicates things because she lives in a world where there’s always a catch,
but does she know of true grace and mercy?

(Forgot to post yesterday–had an extremely busy day, so making up for it today with two posts.)