You look at me, seeing the ugly.
You peer into the darkness of my soul:
Swirling, misty, brimming with blood.
Still, you dare to walk in my direction.
You look into my eyes, seeing shadows—
Endless, blind, black ponds of infection.
My hands, too, are shamefully unclean.
And yet, you tread so close to me.
Your gaze rests upon me—lovingly—
But I am a creature of the night that cowers.
Come no closer, I plead, for these hands will stain
Your flowing white robes with unspeakable filth.
"No," you say. "My child, you are clean."
Your voice, like a feather, caresses me.
I long for your touch, but I know
I am infinitely dirty.
You come closer, but I draw back,
Afraid to show my soiled rags.
I could never rise
From these grisly streets of growing mould.
But in my ear, your voice is ringing.
It beckons to me still, singing:
"I am not afraid, child,
To look upon your tear-stained face.
Though the world has bled you out,
Beneath your scars is what I see.
"I am not afraid, child,
Of these monsters that you hide.
You may be dirty, scared, and wounded;
You may be painfully broken.
You may be crushed and hurting, but
My arms are always open."
YOU ARE READING
Prison of Stone
Poetryʙᴇғᴏʀᴇ ᴛʜᴇʏ ғʟʏ ᴀᴡᴀʏ, ɪ ᴍᴜsᴛ ᴄᴀᴘᴛᴜʀᴇ ᴛʜᴇsᴇ ᴛʜᴏᴜɢʜᴛs ᴀɴᴅ ғᴇᴇʟɪɴɢs ᴀɴᴅ ʙɪɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇᴍ ɪɴᴛᴏ ᴀ sᴏɴɢ. One journey from the depths of the sea to the edges of the universe. One life that takes us in a thousand different directions yet leaves us chained as we tr...
