Frailty

I stand over the tub,
peering down
the white, empty
space.

My body heaves
laciniate breaths,
crying out my throbbing
heart.

In the garden of Gethesmane,
You cried for Your Father to take
the thorn, my anxiety, to the foothills
where no eyes can see.

My tears come as quick
as rain finding this throughly heated,
parched land these days.
Continuous apologies.

I am sorry I worry.
I am sorry I fear.
I am sorry I hurt.
Repeat.

Your ardor feels distances-
I question my want for stability,
wondering why the promise:
I will hold your right hand continually
has made me weep so bitterly.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s