Vol 10, Num 22 :: 2011.12.09 — 2011.12.22
Weakness grows my muscles
makes me brave in this
inability to give selflessly.
All my intentions are coloured
with decay
cracking, spider legs from the
bottom
to the top.
I am everything broken.
I am shattered; a crystal glass of wine
carelessly dropped
yet
meticulously sought after and put back together by
Loving Hands.
Crystal touches my mouth
warm liquid pours down my throat
in a motion of the lips and the tongue
being offered the body
ingesting life itself.
A gift from Hands
that hurt to make me well.
Weakness grows my muscles
makes me brave; teaches me that
I would rather be a mustard seed
than an oak.
The Saviour, three days in a tomb
No gloom, no gloom, no gloom.
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