Your voice,

stoic and white with

stillness,

echoes off the

trenches

of my soul.

But my ears,

hollowed caverns

in their desolate muteness,

are deaf

from silence

by my own refusal to

hear.

My eyes are heavy,

burdened

by the weight

of this darkness.

I am a

savage.

My feet tread mud.

My skin is bronzed

and burned.

My brow

is painted with

soot and ash.

My lips

speak

wicked things.

My hands

fumble

to grasp anything.

I do not know

what

I stumble upon.

I ache.

I hunger.

I howl.

My breaths are

sharp

and dry.

Like an owl

dwelling

in the ruins

of his own nest,

I seek refuge.

Who will shelter

me?

Who will take

Someone covered in

So much filth?

Clothed in grace

you came to me,

a beacon of divinity.

Amidst my charcoaled skies,

a glorious hand extended,

you beckoned me.

Who’s ever heard of

a king beckoning

a peasant?

You saw the

dirt on my body

and washed me

in your blood,

kissed my brow,

and crowned me.

The light of your

spirit

illuminates my

shadowed mind.

Your name slowly spread

across my lips in

scattered whispers,

turning my deepest

lamentations

into coarse hymns.

free to savagely sing

my heart’s

song

in the choir

of your

perfect symphony.

Edited by Benjamin Marcher

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