We keep lighting torches
But have no idea how to defeat
We are drained in scars
And holes to hide in
To escape our own selves,
Forgetting that we were once blind,
And could not walk without our shadows
Keeping us from the sun.
Sometimes, a love’s painful birth,
From a weary soul’s victory,
Over a life, whose shadows fling,
To murder a loss that wounds and stings.
Though, they may yield with the taste of tears,
A sorrow tucked
Behind the thistles of layered years.
He has forgone the shrine of youth,
to chisel grace
From the toiling labor
Of mining truth.
For only the wild will dare
To tempt the cruel decay
Of man’s cathedral mind,
And lift upon his beaten back
The sweet legacy of resurrection divine
And bend his worn-out quivering knee
To be knighted by Love’s sacramental