Walking at the sea’s edge and I find silence within the crashing waves. We Walking at the sea’s edge and I find silence within the crashing waves. We all drown in our own silence. We float unadorned and untethered to the suffering song of quiet. Deep calls unto deep.
My soul is weary of my life and tempts my body to escape. It culls the favor of my blood and my will.
The morning kind of light that suffers softly, sweetly. Oh, thy gentle wound, how you’ve strengthened me. What does the Psalmist say when the words waste away in the beggars mouth? The light of the soul bears wings and flies from the rotted sockets.
The soul speaks in silence while I speak in a million tongues and yet, none of them are mine. I’ve gone as far as stealing my prayers from the lips of dead prophets and called them my own. Even in the gulls cry do I hear something more devote, more real than any word I have uttered.
I meant love, although I could never say it. That word. We buried it with a gravediggers shovel just to see if it would resurrect itself and bear our weights and sorrows. Our sins were too sweet to ever want to beg for a savior.
[Temptation tinged with the desire to lose myself between the folds of your fluttering wings.]
As I walk, the rush of the sea invites me in and to leave you once and for all. A gull cries and lifts my eyes toward a silent sky.