solitude in the midst of company;
run to the solace of familiar shadows.
these hands that carry the world,
this heart that bears up the worn,
brave and strong;
bruised and scarred.
solitude promises safety, yet
the quiet carries a somber requiem.
travel on, gypsy wanderer;
carry on, lonely soul.
run to the meadow, just beyond the
edges of all you see, hidden among the
silent cacophony that quiets both
time and space.
flora and fauna await, against an
open canopy of sky, air that breathes
restoration to the soul.
textures of grace among the dancing trees, unaware of their joyous
hum, the persistent hope of the
water across rocks whispers the words to a song not yet heard, the
embers of love melt
afternoon into evening, the
restful breeze of the meadow carry away the
years, the fears, the tears of what came before.
solitude awakens the internal space, the evening
overture of crickets and creatures call forth the
unseen shadows of courage and strength, the flickering
light necessary to return home.
honest and tender, yet calloused and rough;
these hands full of life, this heart full of love,
these eyes full of tears when this isn't enough;
just wash over me now, wash over me now.
all that is broken and all that is bruised,
all that's dejected and all that's refused,
may grace and may mercy find a space they can use
to wash over me now, wash over me now.
heaven, come down with your peace and your psalm,
harmony, come wrap 'round my soul like a balm,
bluish hues, come paint my world with your calm,
wash over me now, wash over me now.
courage to rise to the battles that come,
kindness that softens the beat of the drum,
wisdom to know when the rhapsody's done;
come and wash over me now,
blessed savior, come and wash over me now.
about the writer.
“Words are only postage stamps delivering the object for you to unwrap” (George Bernard Shaw)