I was absent those years, un-present, as one in limbo.
I couldn’t see mirrors. Days were darkness. And hope was wanning. The loss of naivety, a blessing, a cruel
curse, both?
A soul waits on answers, waiting becomes unbearable,
writhing, seeking self, doing all to stand.
Faith is complex, it requires conviction, to believe against odds,
against reality—the depth of sunshine.
I’ve seen walls move, dynamite exhale, the Passion rise. Tender beginnings. Rough terrain. And
souls are leaping. Faith is intimate—made
of invisibility, made visible through actions; to swim a sea, to land on
pillows, falling through earth—the friction inside, esoteria inside, communing
with something private inside; moving faster, fasting longer, drifting into
focus. Belief is enchanting, losing
naivety, listening to epiphany, gauging palms of reality.
