The Skies Cry

It will not surrender
to words
A descriptive attempt
would fail
I remain captive in
its pause
Detained by an insolent gaze

I shout where I am not heard
I feel what is not
understood
Torment expressed through a sigh
I’ll let the skies cry for me tonight

It bends my need toward
submission
It debates my intent to
be still
It cloaks me in its own
predilection
With the dowry of my will

I hear what remains to be spoken
I see what cannot be
believed
Acrid to faith’s failing light
Let the skies cry for me tonight

It takes what has not
been given
Believes what has not
been decreed
Disrobes what is meant to
be sacred
Suffocates what is trying to breathe

I tread where the path is uncertain
Where the deep waters
flounder faith
Unsinkable only on land
The skies cry for me tonight

Hope

It’s okay to hope. For hope is not a proclamation of what is, but a whisper of what is desired to be.
It is so tender and sensitive that we must shield it from the siphoning gaze of disapproval, and hide it from the scorn of disbelief.
It is not something sure; it’s hope.

And the cast of this kind does not fare well in hostile environments. To nurture this delicate shoot is a specialty in its own rite. The untrained hand will clumsily treat this vulnerable plant with imposing fingers, and suffocating pressure. The wisdom of a gentle touch is what reveals its treasure.

There are a few collectibles of hope my heart still keeps in display, but they are hidden from view; protected from disrepute. It is among these whispers I hear my heart’s voice clearly; beckoning to come, a longing which never makes a sound.