The Loom of Lament

I have spoken so many metaphors,

Layered meaning within meaning,

Baked and raised like buttered pastry,

Giving emotion flesh with words.

But I’m tired.

I’m worn out of sorrow;

it aches my bones, it sours the soul,

so completely have I felt lost.

Still I work the loom of brilliance,

Offering abstractions form in verse,

Shaping voices of tomorrow’s generation,

Sowing seeds of beauty for a harvest.

But it hurts.

I am unseen by those

who say they love me — yet are absent.

I am broken, braking in slow motion.

And yet with golden thread will I endure,

Sing with songbirds’ trill,

Searing songs to hearts, ever until

my song is immortalized as praise.

But the weight —

it bows my shoulders to dust,

it crumples me.

I weep.

Allow me to spin beauty,

clothed in sorrow so splendidly.

It is hidden in totality.

All is the Son.

But I fail.

I fall.

I am Dust