Sanity pins the past out in patterns;
doors emerge between then and now.
. Ghosts live here,
. and they dress memories in dread.
Surrounded by four right-angled curves of abuse;
Weighed down by broken mirrors,
. their cursed shards scream out in cycles of excuse.
As the fog of their image fades in and out,
. painted words scratch blood lines onto my reflected face.
Attempting to lay old claims;
. then from within them, as if in pain,
. silent snarls and smirks, distort their pale images.
Drawn, like swords, their fingers point to my chest.
Some unseen presence has disturbed them, in their contorted place of rest.
Drawn, like swords, their fingers point to my right and then to my left.
Midnight Walkers, absent of wings,
. uphold the bereft.
. their prayers always accompanied by command
. and gracious invitation.
Never demanding for themselves my attention.
These human-like strangers travel in pairs.
Acting with intention,
. only ever seen in rare moments of intermission,
. they serve God’s interventions.
Messengers, autographed in blood-red.
Echo the Living Word and what He has spoken:
“You’re never alone. For angels shadow the broken.”
“it is the spirit of man, the breath of the Almighty, that makes him understand; the Spirit of God. Has made me, and the breath of the Almighty gives me life. For God is greater than man. He has redeemed my soul from going down to the pit, and my life shall look upon the light.”
(Job 32:8, 33:4, 28, ESV)