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Image credit: Ransom Riggs
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The hand that touched upon my chest
That penetrated as it firmly pressed
That sent its heat fiercely through my unsuspecting
breast
It wrapped my heart in fingers bold
It sent heat waves through my veins once cold
And seeped into my blood like stories never told
Then sprung a root (or was it thorn?)
With tentacles like seedlings born
Which wrapped 'round and 'round and up and down each
and every cell forlorn
Its energy came coursing true
Wrapping 'round and 'round and through and through
It didn't know, but tried to wash away all thoughts
of You
Its vines… No, roots... No, thorns…
Wound tight and pulled and tangled
Until, thick, they brought on darkness raging
With a passion raw, seeking light, it scratched and clawed
Another piercing of my wounded heart
Willful ripping of my Creator’s art
Undone by its own unleashed lust
Then bursting out, it found next sought
And flew away, left me for naught
Its hand upon my chest I had not fought
In darkest core still hid my heartbeat
Smoldering with hope I could no longer feed
Its blood and breath and life sucked out like a gasp
of heat
Survival dictates preserve thyself
So with grace and peace and clarity
One fell swoop loped off that hand and shriveled what
remained
All foreign, ugly, dead debris
Instantly became ashes
Which turned to mulch to feed my hope
Just how the Good Book says it happens
