The Vigil

I have stood long in the night — not as warrior, but as witness. Like a weary soldier upon the ramparts, I keep my post as the world sleeps beneath its amber spell. The stars fade, the wind turns, and the horizon begins to glow faintly with His coming light. Such is the life of Dust: to hold vigil in the in-between, to guard what little flame still flickers, until the dawn declares His name. (I have been working on this one wince 5 am)

I find myself once more in the dark of night,

Solitary in vigil for tomorrow’s unshaped morn.

Slumber — casualty of the light sleeper’s plight —

Still moments must have witness in day and dusk,

Else how could we know them fully, as we must?

Still, I swear the world sits hushed — fallen beneath

A spell of aged amber. All unwitting participants, sleeping,

Become bound together in glowing golden resin, like dreams —

Fossilized into permanence by stagnation, by minds at rest —

To be reborn in time beneath life’s gemological depth.

So still the night; I listen to every solitary sound

Carried within the fitful, enclosing arms of wind.

People passing — paused, turning mid-dream and astounding —

From my wife behind, in repose, to the distant city’s murmuring lights,

Awaiting the answer to the question posed by the wind.

Now the bed calls once more, Beloved — where we converse in Sacred Spirit,

Entwined in unity of Source, free from sin’s sullied shame.

So I say once more, Amen, and then again in the Name —

Amen, Yeshua.

Dust