A cleaving of the mind and tongue;
daily probing, prodding, plumbing
a deep and nebular unknown, unable
to put into words my understanding;
unable to understand all I hope to describe.
When I catch, every now and then,
a glimmer and whisper of the mystery,
it transcends and eludes description
so that I bring back
not a word that isn’t wasted
on the language of our collectively
agreed upon, everyday assumptions,
turning my efforts into a love offering
recited solely to and for Him.
O child of God, you’re a poet
because you’ve taken the long way home.
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