Aiming for a creative life

I Am Santo

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Brittle bones break. Brittle bones shake. Brittle hopes awake in the dusk of night’s quake. In the blacklight. Under the cry. With the moan and cautious grip. In the blink of an eye.

Boring into these most unquiet ecstasies is the soul stretched taunt on the deliverance of dreams. For all those ways home, why would faith correct the unworthy into believing things now breathe in kind order?

They can’t. No fear. Underneath the dying skies of Adam’s lonely walk. In gardens blossoming under the gaze of a doting Father, oh so undue. How that hunger doesn’t understand the way a world spins with truth.

It feigns sympathy, each turn, the clock ticking and awaiting urn. A sky bleeding sun through the skin of cloud. Mercy uttered in ecstasy, hopes cried aloud. Bed sheets clutched, the welcomed little death. Release and wonder, the joy of lost breath.

And in the sweat and rapture, so He’s invoked, awe overwhelming, like salted piano strikes over the bridge of a song; like blissful dreams of flight, limbs still weightless at waking. Intellect damned at the height of dissolved tension, and so rules shatter, skeletal truths revealed.

Can’t pretend at the end, spent from effort, bones mend. So this is what’s behind it all, His presence in that absent call. Under the skin, mixing deep in the soul, wound in this system despite every eye roll.

Reverence is the weak filling of blanks in the stumble through day, tripping over excited daisies in poppy fields fed by fallen ideals, but happily marched into the sediment; thankful for their rot. Imbued with the divine. What a cruel gambit played for an eye open.

It’s just a word, a fallible drop of consonants and single vowel that lilts off the tongue at surrender, like a baby’s cry for a mother’s tit. Inherent. Unyielding. Stitched thread binding disparate benevolence. Little more than a reflexive call for healing after life crushes underfoot the fragile shadows long in an unforgiving son’s wake.

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