Touched

I wrote it as a poem, but sometimes I wonder if the poem wrote me instead.

I have been touched since my earliest recollections.

As a child, untrained in faith’s limitations,

I was hearing what no ear can hear

and seeing what no eye can see.

Before the world told me what should not be shown,

I donned — mistakenly, perhaps — my own version

of a multicolored dream coat,

in open adoration, with all masks set aside.

In You did I abide.

When the “church” saw that You still had hands in me,

they cowered, shrinking away

from Your reflection in my eyes —

afraid of what the Living God

might whisper about them and their lives.

All my relationships failed because authenticity stings;

it challenges assumptions

and invites inward reflection.

Alas, they were too frightened, and fled.

Relationships fractured.

Such is the role of the willing,

and I harbor no resentment.

Even when burdens stack like bricks,

I look to the reward already given —

alive and living in me.

The Lamb who was slain — alive.

Amen.

— Dust

If this resonates, help me spread the word with carefully selected souls.