What tale am I to tell?
Where does my story begin?
Where will it all end?
I look about and see poetry
in the trees as the wind blows through the leaves
in the songs of the birds nesting in the branches.
There is poetry in the love I share
in the tears I shed
in my own imperfections.
I look up at the clouds scudding across the sky
changing shape molded by unseen hands
creating a story that is timeless.
I am such a small part of the greater whole
seeking to discover that one great purpose
writing these bits and pieces of poetry
hoping to see in the words a reflection of my soul.
Perfection is a dream, a fantasy of youth
these words are imperfect as is the language.
It can never describe those deeper feelings
that lie at the core of my being,
a being fraught with fear and anxiety
of knowing I am not enough on my own.
What tale do I tell?
What mystery lies at the root of my heart?
The roads I have travelled were never straight
winding through a landscape at once beautiful and terrible.
Through the gauntlet of people and places
faces haunting the edges of my memory
now I stand on the precipice of the future
as I stare out across a valley shrouded in fog
wondering where my story will take me.
Time grows shorter with each passing year
I now have arrived at a point where there are less tomorrow’s
and I can no longer sit idly
as that enemy time,
gnaws me down into dust.
All is sacred, all is holy, if I dare to look outward
fear is the cage created to justify our own failures
and I have failed and fallen so may times
yet, like the Phoenix I have risen from the ashes
to stand before the judgement seat of the Holy
the mystery of unconditional love
that calls us out of our tombs
unbinding our tortured souls
and bathing us in the light of truth.