Monday, September 20, 2010

The wrong sort of morning

There is nothing left inside, no images. Words come, but they are colorless, lines and scratches. I dreamed I rode a tiger, played in a fountain, but I awoke blank and dry. (I want to call out, but what can I say? How can I ask you to reach out to me, when I don't even have the energy to open my hands?) I am ashamed to be this death-dry desert when so much rain has fallen on me. I should be a garden, but the trees have withered into twigs that lie broken on the ground, lines and scratches in the sand that might have been soil once. The ghosts of promised fruits linger in the dry air: the scent of flowers that bloomed and faded.

The truths in the music, the words in the Book, roll across me. They slide away before I can absorb them, water-droplets on a windshield, leaving lines of water like messages in a script I can't read. My mood is the color and shape of water. In the time it takes for the clouds to dissolve and then rush back together, this shallow pool of water shows a thousand images, a million colors. My mind is the sound of the wind through the leafless trees, lines and scratches that bear no fruit.

"I need Thee every hour."

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