From Dust to Doves

What do you think when you lie there for hours,
sleepless,
and yesterdays milk sits,
and curdles and sours,
while windowsill cacti birth flower upon flower,
and monochrome visions surrender their power.

Thoughts, dreams, cold whispers
hastily snare,
swift contemplation
leaves the soul bare.
And they shred and they tear
the flesh
which, at best,
is null, void and dead.

Dust in the end.

But His strength engulfs sorrow,
holding steadfast to hope,
through faith, I am hollowed.
And He mends fractured wings,
forming doves out of sparrows,
as He paints new tomorrows.

His golden hands hold the scars,
of the stars.
And I am new once again.