Random bricks and stones
where walls used to be.
Where homes used to be. Places
that seemed so sturdy and safe. Until.
Always the until.
Acts of Nature.
Acts of Malice.
Sabotage. By others. By yourself.
What a surprise it is.
How fast the fall.
The stones are rarely as inevitable
as we were led to believe. There is always
an invisible breaking point, that moment
when it all comes undone.
And you are left with
You have lived it.
You have been it
You have laid in the fields of debris for seasons
It doesn’t matter.
Truly it doesn’t.
You think it does.
You believe it does
but in the end, every season is different
and the building lessons you think you learned
have less to do with the next
than you want to believe.
This is what matters.
Faith that you are worth the rebuilding,
worth the work,
the struggle. The failures
as pieces, so broken, don’t go together
the same way.
The understanding that you are not rebuilding,
You are creating anew
and all the precautions you build into the new walls
will not be enough to protect you,
without faith that no matter what,
you will live again.
About this poem
Kind of an Easter poem. Kind of a celebration of my journey so far, and the place I am in. Kinda just came out when I saw this picture of an old culvert that washed out.
Inspiration is just flat weird sometimes.