It’s not about forgiveness from sin
despite the finger still pointed by false prophets
who straddle truth like a broomstick
between their fat thighs
they have no power here.

Since the cyclone swept through my old land
it’s a world no longer just black or white.
There’s so much to see and the freedom to play
and to dance in the street and to sleep in a field
of wide-eyed late bloomers
who also fell out of the sky.

We take turns keeping watch in our sleep
lest monkeys that fly swoop down and snatch us away
to some wicked witch’s cold barren castle.
It would be easy to think it’s a dream
but for the thing we all seem to lack.
We call it by various names
and insist that each quest is unique
but the aching inside feels the same.

It’s enough to carry us on toward the promise
we believe we need someone to keep–
to mend our fragmented hearts,
to help us to think and not to fear,
to let us sit like a child on the lap of the Lord
and feel that our journey is finally over.

So we press on arm in arm
with the wizard’s palace on the horizon
not realizing often until we reach the gate
and ask to be ushered in,
that we had what it takes all along.
Simple as believing what we always knew,
scary as letting go of a hand
and with our eyes closed,
clicking our heels.