Untitled

I wrote this a while ago, but have been reminded of it lately in my work. Had a client today who absolutely broke my heart...makes me wonder, "who are you to excavate these fragile, precious caves?"

Untitled (Only because I can't think of a good one)

I sit
lately
so still,
a vessel, half full, just waiting
waiting to be filled with
--with something—

I meet
lately
these souls who
sit as still as me, also
waiting for
filling and I
fill them with
--with something—

I pour
lately
myself into these
empty vessels who
tell me stories of
war—a private war,
Andrew’s Family War,
Sarah’s Civil War and
Zachary’s War Against the World.

There is blood and gore and carnage and
stories of rape and rage and rain and
sunlight and
—and something—

I find
lately
that I am a
spelunker with
5 minutes of relationship as my light and
another person’s soul as a compass and
I go, gently and boldly with
courageously tentative footsteps
into the cave of a journey
I am not living
and yet—

I look
lately
into the mirror and wonder
“who are you to excavate these fragile precious caves?”

I peer
lately
into stranger’s eyes and wonder
“do you also house a cavern of
despair and
hope and darkness and
sunlight and
-and something—
unnamable?”

I look from my windows and see
even the trees have scars.
One cannot make it through this life unscathed.

As I think
lately
in stillness, I see
the vessel is indestructible and
full of –something—
unnamable and--
perfect.