eight::twentysix

I have balanced myself upon the rope of a forlorn heart
for many moons, now, and continually wonder why.
Discipline, I have heard today, and I would hope so,
for that would help my mind to recover,
to trace back the steps to that place I was meant to be.
Yet, have I ever been there?
Have I stood upon its shores, smelled its breeze,
tasted the nectars of its wines?
Perhaps, but its moments are fleeting,
a company kept now for no certain time,
and yet I have knelt at the holy alter
to offer what fruits I have been given,
words from my land and tongue that do well to be spoken,
some that do better in the well of my heart
to ferment for taste and be poured out one day for others.

As such, I must learn to bear silence,
to be moved beyond this thin string to the hand of hope.
For though my tongue promises much,
though the praise it offers at times is blessed,
I have a knowledge of my recess,
the games that lower my head.
First, I must again be healed,
then I should speak,
for we are being drawn near the holy mountain,
the sacred alter prepared for the peoples,
a gathering of priests and priestesses and laity,
life giving life to life.

The unexpected thrives, and mystery dines with hope.

(Isaiah 66:18-21, Psalm 117, Hebrews 12:5-7,11-13, Luke 13:22-30)