Pressing the Dark

Sometimes down, unable to look up properly,
but still pressing hard against the dark,
wondering when joy will return
or whether it was really there prior,
I cleave to Him, desperately.

A melody bubbles to the surface like springwater.
It sings itself over the top of the strings.
And they sing themselves awake in harmony.
But lyrics humbly refuse to speak.
Praise can be in the simple expression of witlessness.

And the glory again goes to God as it must,
since no one can cut Him off.
No person under the sun can shudder off the cold
that would come with detachment from the love,
a love that stabs repeatedly into our personal darkness.

 

© Copyright 1999, Douglas Decicco, 181 Dogwood Lane, South Windsor, CT - This poem may be duplicated and distributed freely provided the following three restrictions are adhered to during the duplication and distribution of said poem, regardless of the number of recursive duplications or distributions made:
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