Deliver me from the hopelessness of uncertainty; from the outcry of fear against my weary soul.
Deliver me from the grasping of wind; from the vain running after of rain.
It falls and I grasp, but find it slipping, slipping, slipping.
Deliver me from quick anger, hardened envy and wild bitterness that grows little nettles and thorns, fast as spreading wildfire. It eats at life itself and grows, writhing, blackening, blackened; black.
Deliver me from unnecessary burdens, to heavy to bear;
From the weight of the world against my loneliness.
Deliver me from the running back to broken dreams, holding them up to be pieced together again, like ugly shards of confused colored glass. I cannot write against what is already etched into sandstone and marble. Though it glares back at me with eyes full of a thousand arrows, I must stand from my kneeling and take the path I am given.
Deliver me from calling back the vultures of a past story. Their bloodshot eyes and naked heads tell tales of ripened ruin and shriveled expectation. They circle around and around and around incessantly, much like the chaos of a story which could have been but never was.
Somehow, we learn the lesson that the sky above and ahead of us is more beautiful and golden then the sweetness of abandoned lands behind.
Look ahead – there is a sky full of goldfinches and glory.
The Silent Storyteller 