Revival

Each night

I pray that I will meet my lover once again. 

His name rhymes with survival. 

His song sings ‘revival’. 

Each night

I pray that I die

to this world and that we – my lover and I – 

are born again into the same body. 

I stretch 

                                                             and rub my fingertips over the 

small of my back, tracing them up 

to my shoulders.

One arm crossed diagonally over my chest where the weight of 

the world 

rests 

heavy 

and 

burdensome. 

As I press my fingertips 

down, I pierce the surface 

                                               of my skin, already bruised and 

broken. It screams silent and suffocated sounds. Though I am no longer in

tune with the sensations of this shell I once called home. 

I am hollow 

but He hears me – echoes through me. 

Only He can hear – can feel – my pain writhing in His own body. 

The muscle tissue is no longer fleshy and alive as it once was but has 

congealed into a 

concrete mass, like the rocks forming the foundation of the very ground 

beneath 

my 

knees. 

I once was a soldier fighting for freedom. Now I am reduced to that which forms the battleground.

At most I am a prayer warrior –

But a worrier just the same. 

Though I am young, my body has a lifetime of battle scars. It is fatigued by the weight of 

the world 

resting 

heavy 

and 

burdensome on my shoulders. Each night, I pray that the waves of the wind whistle through me – carry me to the finish line where I may 

rest

at the feet of my lover, where I may wash His feet in the sweetest smelling perfumes.

Perfumes enriched with the purest gold, the most pungent frankincense and aromatic myrrh. 

I pray that the suffering comes to a standstill 

and that the air, once thick and charred with the fiery, hot and humid stench of pollution, is purified by the living waters that run through me –

that live in me,

and you.

 

Image Credits: Yohann Libot – https://unsplash.com/photos/pRUdOHLEmsQ

 

 

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