There’s always that hope that
It will sprout again
With just a little water,
Some sunshine and some warmth.
It seems to be so overcast
And a chill hangs in the air,
Yet I want so desperately
For a chance at new life-
I curl up, laying my body
Across the rough cut surface
Warming it with
The heat of my desire
For restoration;
Watering the wound
With my own
Stream of tears.
From this dark and sorrowful place
I cannot create light.
Though my lips do not move
And my parched throat is silent,
I cry out from my depths
And summon the Son.
A seed planted in healthy soil
Is not guaranteed to sprout
Nor is my cry for Sonlight
An assurance of a second chance,
But faith provides evidence that
Through Him
Living water flows.
Age 25