Help-Cry
I’ve launched my flare into Your sky.
Along with another.
It’s hard to wrestle with
the night inside of me,
to unclaw its grip.
Windy arms shove in this
struggle against gusting flesh.
They thrust and settle,
nudge and sleep,
drive and ambush,
always in this night,
where sky doesn’t befriend shine,
and warmth is just a word.
I’ve flashed my cry into
Your heaven, Lord.
This body of death,
heavy as death in body,
heavy as the weight of struggle,
wears the hands of gravity.
When was I not fallen?
Earth-bound and sin-infected?
Yet what part of me will
not trek under the
One brighter than
legions of luminaries that
bespeckle darkness?
What part of me, fastened,
wincing, falling, is not
trekking
on a path that is
like the dawn’s light,
which shines brighter and
brighter until full day?