Tuesday, February 4, 2014

The Weary Widow

An empty hole is all that’s left, dark, hollow and cold.
I’ve been defined by the death of another. I’m alive, breathing, my life stifled by words that wound. I hide behind my shield, waiting for the approval of my jury. They are silent with their gifts, only voicing their rules. The battle rages daily, to hike this earth because God has decided that I am to remain.  Light comes in quick, moving flickers of heat, a warmth that does not last.
I am trapped, chained and bound to a life that was altered without choice.
Moving forward feeds the scrutiny of others. Ravaged wolves gnash their teeth.
Leaving loneliness is not permitted. Adapting is out of the question.
Suspicion grows, consuming me, tainting my integrity.
Opinions dictate, telling me what I’m allowed to have and what I’m not.
 Is my soul dead? My heart still beats, though shrouded by death. What is a life without passion? What is a life without contact, the touch or caring words of another? Has my only chance come and gone?
Am I not worthy?   What are the rules of this new life? According to others it is small, confined, and without unity.  If this is the way, why must I remain? God strives for fellowship as his own children insist on division.
Where is my place? Am I to be alone? Waving, but not permitted to venture from this island?   Does a circumstance beyond one’s power deem them to never connect to another, to never cherish or be treasured?  Who is the one to approve?
A plant that is parched cannot live. 
I am still here, thirsty for my purpose, wanting all the desires that others seek.
Why can it only be them, and not me?


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