Oh God, where are the poems of my heart?
Where the life-flow streaming out of my arteries from my core
Like the teeming rivers branching from one central source,
Rushing over rocks and logs to the distant, infinite shore?
How I wish I knew how to speak of You more!
Each song is a blood cell.
It carries with it my life.
It tells of my identity.
It cheers my night.
It swims through the vast plasma veins,
Running through tunnels like a torrential rain
Yet suddenly halts when it encounters a foe,
A blistery barrier, bludgeoning all who would go.
A fierce resistance.
What of this?
It’s a fear of being heard,
A doubt of what is seen,
A paralyzing bird,
A haunting, hellish dream.
And keenly, keenly,
It gainsayingly says sayings,
Saying that suffering suffers
An underestimated weight of pain:
“For pain is fierce, of course!
And much to be dread!
It’ll knock you down,
Sweep you up,
Bash you ’round
And fill your cup
With sorrows inexplainable in the longest discourse,
Leaving you to summon your mates to bury you dead.
And that much before your time should come!”
Oh to be undone!
To be ridden of the wrappings that tie my heart in knots!
To be steadily certain of every whimsical thing that passes by my soul!
That cell of a song would be fit to run free,
No trappings present, no passageways squeezed.
My thoughts would pour now
Like beads spilling out
From a furiously overturned bowl.
What a goal!
To surely know
That all is well with the world;
That all is well with my soul.
Where again are the streaming songs,
Pouring in overflow to know Your name?
They are flowing, ever flowing,
Flowing from a Heaven-winded vein;
Flowing because of my infused identity –
You in me.
Your heart was transplanted into mine;
Ever residing in my being, You’re the source of my life.
As a painter’s painting painted with colors unbought,
But rather given to him by another,
So are my songs to You.
You provided the paints, now my work is wrought
For my mysterious Lover
Your love that came to me much like mine goes out from You,
A song of blood,
A poem of love,
What will we do?