By Guillit A.
Lonely, so lonely—
I would run from this ache,
this hollow cry within me
that longs for a touch,
a voice,
a warmth that stays.
I smile to hide the cracks,
distract myself with noise,
but silence creeps like dusk
and the hours stretch empty.
I am a barren land—
cracked, dry,
thirsting for rain.
I have chased mirages,
believed in false oases,
tasted dust and called it hope.
O Voice I cannot see,
O Presence I cannot touch,
wait for me—
and I will not wander far.
Take my battered bowl,
fill it with Your plenty,
for nothing else will do.
I am too deep for trifles,
too vast for shallow waters.
If this wound is my compass
that points me to You,
then let it bleed.
We did not cry
for the child who was,
nor for the flesh that silence ate.
We cried instead
for two men
alone beneath an empty sky,
shoveling earth like a blanket
to keep young blood down.
For in that dark mother’s soil,
we saw our own ending—
and knew,
at last,
how lonely death will be.
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