Sunday, April 15, 2012


It seems that I am never whole
And will not ever be
The adventures of whole people
Aren't possible for me

I am composed of gaping wounds
And if one should be filled
Another opens long and deep
And dark and wet and chill

My body is a ragged cloth
A bank of jagged scars
Whose seams are ripped so vast and huge
That through them shine the stars

That light confers no healing touch
Nor comfort it conveys
But only gives a teasing glimpse
Of whole men's flawless rays

We filter them, we unwhole few
With tragedy replete
And by our chasmic emptiness
They see themselves complete

We are the shadows in the night
The fairytales gone wrong
The awful roar of sterile skies
The mourn in every song


naturgesetz said...

One of the major insights of Henri Nouwen is that everybody is broken in some way. Of course, for some that brokenness, that unwholeness is worse than for others, but I'm sure this poem, from the depths of your heart, could resonate in many another heart.

laura b. said...

How very sad and beautiful.

Jay M. said...

Wow. Awesome work.

Peace <3

rented life said...

You captured what I've been feeling lately. Thank you.

Arizaphale said...

There is ALWAYS time for healing. It's just hard to say how long it will be.