Dear
rasping
raging
gasping
grasping
world,
I’m
sorry.
Sorry for trying
to appear
as though I’m not
really sick, helpless, desperate, a
stinking stench of self-pretense.
Sorry for pretending your
nakedness is not
mine too,
for hiding the broken
pieces of myself
within the gloss
that was really a wall
to keep you away.
Dear world,
dear weary, bleary,
wasted, wretched world.
I am
you.
And we are lost,
lonely,
languishing,
longing for something
we do not understand.
If I stand
before you
exposed
will you look
into me
as in a mirror?
Will you see the you
that you run from,
will you let my shame
reflect yours?
Can you see it, world?
If I let you,
will you look on my
need and know
you are the same?
And looking deeper will you
see
as I do
the Image
trapped in death?
Maybe we could
join hands and
confess
our unbelief.
Maybe we really could
un clench
un hide
un hate
un lie
throw it all down
and be undone
Maybe we could
walk together
into the
dark light
of grace,
step toward the
hope
that we shun.
Maybe we could believe.
And then this thing we are
afraid of,
this surrender,
becomes only a sundering
of our already-shattered selves
from the things that cannot
heal.
And then death
is a trail not
a terminus;
it is the way
through
the shadowlands.
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