Each shadow stretches, sharp as bone.
The weight folds me, my breath spent.
But through the fracture comes a hum,
a warm pulse threading through silence.
His steps fall soft beside my own,
his breath brushes the bruised night.
No word, no rush—his presence fills,
like water sinking into cracked earth.
And when I rise, my ribs still ache,
but I see another, bent, breaking.
I offer palms that once were hollow
and find his strength flows through me still.
We are needles stitching tears closed,
quiet menders in a frail, worn quilt.
In giving the gift, I am remade—
the hands I hold are his, are mine.
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Author:
gray0328 (
Offline) - Published: September 3rd, 2025 10:20
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 17
Offline)
Comments3
In this poem I read that we are all our own savior and god. Nicely written
Powerful work. Vivid and sharp.
Thank you my friend I appreciate your feedback and support
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