The Wind Has No Face

I can see the rustle of the leaves,

feel the air blow its brush across my skin,

smell life’s scents linger in lofty allure,

watch the clouds live as pillow wisps

in a cerulean sky and wonder what they see.

 

But through my eyes is the gaze

from what lives as light within my soul.

And if all I’ve known is the stabbing kisses of evil,

the words of scribes that never stopped the abuse,

how can I find a face in the wind?

 

To grope and search for a divine portrait,

some semblance of certainty

that there is a heaven with real power

for ceasing the talons of cruelty

or the fangs of vile villains,

quickly evaporates for some

when life bears more pain and scars

than flowers, pleasures and dreams.

 

It is easy to retreat behind a pulpit,

parrot the scriptures as perfect replies

unto those who are bleeding,

but it won’t dry the tears and heal the suffering

or answer the endless questions of why?

 

What burns within me

is a flame I know I didn’t created,

never sought it or expected that fire,

still it came and glowed until I saw its source,

couldn’t deny the Lord’s hand

as the one who held that candle.

 

Did it end all the memories

of times as victim drowning in a cesspool

made of what my enemies discard as toxic waste?

 

The world didn’t stop from shaking

because more hate holds its layers

than the fingers of love?

 

But somehow in that chasm of truth

there came a peace and it was strangely enough

so I could live with what didn’t make sense

while suddenly having visions of eternity.