Although my frame is fit to the untrained eye, to the friend it’s frail.
Weakened by the weight of life I find solace in silence, sin and splendor.
My being vibrates with the pace of life sending desperate signals out to still the intense motion.
Quickened by stress in the atmosphere, the vibrations intensify, depleting any inner peace.
My frame appears intact but one touch, and it could crumble to dust.
Weakness is a pool of whirling waters where sin and glory convene: one grips me like a rope and rock tethered to my feet, pulling me to the floor of the deep; the other exasperates and jolts my body into flight, reaching for air and a hand to grab.
It elevates my weakness and with a firm grip rescues me, turning my struggle into a cleansing bath of redemption.
The warmth of the hand I hold makes my cold drenched body rise like steam reaching to the heavens.
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