You open the door,
move slowly inside the darkness,
and before you can even turn the key
your eyes flood with grief that spills over from
all of the misunderstandings that hang so heavy
around your heart and your breath and your tired soul.
It’s been long enough now,
this hurt that wants to be despair,
that says to keep driving until you are
away from the pain of people and words
who tear deeply at the soft fibers of your life
that seem fragile and short and threaten to fall apart.
You want to let go,
move gently from what troubles you,
what makes you tremble with fatigue and
sorrow so thick you get stuck in sheets of doubt
that hang like so much lost time and demand that
you question every move, every look, every single thing.
But when you turn away,
from words and people and mortar,
you find that the silence is painfully loud
and cuts at the places where your ideas are
just starting to take shape with soft whispers that
beg desperately for you to hear and to follow and trust.
So you try with grace to be still,
to kindly remove what doesn’t serve you,
what drains and steals and quiets with such
heart wrenching fear and greed that when you
open the door and move slowly inside the darkness
your eyes spill over with grief before you can even turn the key.