“Nobody knows what the soul is,” Mary Oliver

Head down,

eyes squeezed shut,

ears all open

 

drowning

in insecurities innumerable,

regrets, thick shame,

stuck.

Memories

Like bad odours

Clinging around,

Unpleasant.

And fear

Spreading

Tentacles of doom

Creeping up,

Wrapping round

Scarred wrists

And hoarse whispers,

Grating,

“If they only knew

the real you…

Despicable.

Unworthy.

Forgotten.

Don’t be known.

Being known equals pain.”

A soul

Contracting

In on itself

Ready to

just

stop

being.

Shadows hide

a pained face

Dripping wet.

 

“Jesus.”

A soul cries,

from deep below

it’s cracked,

wounded,

bleeding

surface.

“Jesus.”

 

Free.

Loved.

Chosen.

“It’s going to be ok.”

Free.

Loved.

Chosen.

“Lean into Me.”

Free.

Loved.

Chosen.

“Just trust Me.”

Free,

loved,

chosen

by God,

Soul-maker,

Soul-restorer,

soul-safe

Peace.

It’s a still, new morning

not a being

or breath of wind

stirs.

I step into it eager

to just be

to let the stillness become

part of me,

welcome stillness

into my soul

open,

smooth,

waiting happy

right here, now.

Work-worn hands grip

The chair back,

A liberated soul

grips a nail-scarred palm

to palm, scar to scar.