Here in His Hand

All around me,

the stench of

rotten flesh,

of dead old things,

of old self, is stirred up

by tempestuous winds.

 

Where are those familiar

thoughts I awoke into

as if from out of some

amnesia-tic state,

those thoughts that sound

like the searing of fireworks

sparklers, those thoughts

that are soundly aflame with

burning Love?

 

Where are those familiar scents

that evoke triumphant imagery

of victory processions,

of Eternal Reign,

of passionate captivation,

of hope and a future?

 

“Here,” He speaks to me gently,

stretching forth His hand to me

with an immediacy that both

startles and comforts me.

 

For a moment, before taking

His hand to my face, which is

wet with those thick tears that

come forth out of a well in

the garden of my heart, I study

the shape of His hand. I study

the lines on the palm of His hand,

studying and seeing

that my name is written on them—

written like a daydreaming

lover writes,

studying the curve of me

in the letters of my name.

 

“Here,” He speaks to me gently,

stretching forth His hand to me

with immediacy,

“all is here, My love, in My hand.”

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