There is a sacred place where three collide as one.
And in this space my life begins. . .a life broken in despair.
Broken life, like broken glass, shattered pieces everywhere.
These men I know, those I have spoke of.
The Ghost, the Lamb, and the Nameless One.
I long to hold them all the same.
And yet my hand is shaky, it's selfish, and I'm scared.
A palm relaxed and open, I beckon for the Spirit.
I long for him, and when away I beg for his return.
I hold both hands outright to the Lamb, my comfort and my groom.
He's at my side when no one else comes near.
He holds me tight, lays hands on me so as to feel him there.
But so to the Whisper we can not name I hold a fist so tight.
A fist of anger, of doubt, of rage, and at times it feels untrust.
Why is it you shake me at the core, as if I haven't done enough.
I see you in the old oak tree, I hear you in the wind.
You call me and I come to you, but at times I feel I'm not let in.
Why is it that I invite this, encourage this. . .this uncertainty and anguish?
Or is it not, could it be, I know not what you do?
My heart . . . it's yours, and with it comes the pieces.
I am too weary to pick them up, too weary to mend this wound.
Hurry to me, put me together.
For the waiting. . .feels like far too much to bear.