There’s an illusion of beauty
In the heaviness within my soul.
It’s the delicate softness of it’s weight,
But with the heroic carrying, I’m rendered the fool.
There’s a solace in group grief
Culture’s anchor, a subtle weight in the heart.
The coming together only after tears,
Believing relief to be pleasure, all these years.
Forsaken. Where is the Creator?
If in idols, I will know grief.
And I will hold my breath, longing for the divine
With every encounter so brief.
But in Creation, there is nothing to lose
There’s only eternal having, if I so choose.
The Depths of Light 