Scraps

I am peeling back the blinds to find myself

Blind

At blaring light last night hid from my sight

Blind

Not only to my surrooundings but to the one who found me

And wrote a more beautiful history

Who wanted more than this for me

Wistfuly I recount the dreams and aspirations

That were planted like seeds in the soil of my heart

I start

To remember that they are true

though they seem too good for this dusty life around me

I’m grounding

My direction in the words you spoke to me

delicately directing my life out to open sea

I’m constrained by your stars but otherwise free

To be

Everything written in the DNA

Of this burning coal you placed on my lips

On this road trip the cd skips

When I hit bumps I bite lips

And my tongue

Sore from abuse might stay silent

Might not show up for work

But stay at home sick

Might forget how to spit

Sickly the very anthem that kills the enemy

When have we ever been at ease with

Not talking

Loose lips sink ship, change lives, patch rips

In the holes of our identity

Maybe we are stuck between

A lofty self image that seems too good to be true

And a battered distortion served up as truth

Mute

And unable to speak the speech prepared

Long before the creation of the world you cared

Enough about me to choose my hair color

What mother would bear to watch two brothers

Silently tear apart

Well I start to do the same

Every day that I live differently than my name

Every day that I wake silently to the pain

Of pretending my calling was only a dream

Of watching the mural washing off the walls

Of the house that is also crumbling

Stumbling through the house of mirrors

Hall of dreams, running with scissors

Cutting the time it takes to get

To the other side of regret

And yet

I woke up this morning and stared in my coffee

And somehow the Spirit reached out and sang to me

More than a melody, it was a symphony

Of everything I was formed to be

Of all the things that have ever excited me

Written in my very bones

Fitted in with other stones

We make a wall to make a home

For the only muse, for the Father of Futures

For the real dream catcher and keeper

The Author, Spellchecker, Finisher, and Reader

Of our faith

Our faith

Is not in our own ability to create something with this life

Our fight

Is not to scrape meaning out of grey painful existence

Our life

Is to tune our ears to hear not fear but beauty

Not strict but loosely

Choosing from a wide array of choices

All pointing quite directly to the very First of Voices

The very Fount of Goodness

The very Point of Life

The only one able to peel back the blinds of the blind and speak life

To write a better story with our meager scraps of life