eight::twentynine

Words can be Word if heard in such a way that life is drained
then filled again.
The color has drained from my face,
the blood finding a new home somewhere beneath the surface,
but it cannot hide for long,
for darkness cannot be for much longer with the Word heard.
Heads may roll, or at least be bowed
searching for the source of that feeling in the gut.
Eyes may be christened with tears,
closed to seek the silence,
the thoughts of release,
the prayers for dreams to be lovely, again, or for the first time.

Burdensome Word, why do you seek me?
Word made flesh, how did you find me?
And I wanted to think everything was okay.
Have I now only found myself again trying to hide,
a pointless, numb and dull enterprise?
Word, have You come into my mind,
brushed upon my lips with an exhale,
and if so, did I even hear myself speaking?

Mercy, Lord, have mercy.
Every spot matters, every breath is a holy moment.

(Memorial of the Martyrdom of St. John the Baptist, 1 Thessalonians 2:9-11, Psalm 139, Mark 6:17-29)