Process

A window fogged by breath too near,

It blurred the truth I failed to hear,

Disorted the view I needed to see,

Of all the things still holding me.

A weary writer, a restless hand,

Scraping for sparks in shifting sand,

A haunted thinker, a tired soul,

Dangling loose, so sick of the role.

I look behind at vows betrayed,

At all the truths that time decayed,

Wondering if my words were lies,

Or prayers yet to reach the skies.

A shadowed thinker, a haunted mind,

Tied with threads, hard to unwind,

Clinging to a preacher’s tone,

Speaking of love I’ve barely known.

How many downfalls must I take,

Before I learn from each mistake?

How much love must reach my core,

To make me stay, not run once more?

I hold the dream of something new,

A world where sorrows can’t pursue,

A rooted hope without guarantee,

Still holding the faith that’s guiding me.

The fire I offered to the sea,

Was drowning the warmth, returning to me,

The shore was bare, the ember gone,

Yet still the tide kept moving on.