|Sophia Summit by The Naked Pastor|
In my hands there is coal
and it will take years of pressure before
diamonds come spilling from my fingertips.
As a child I held these hands open
you grasped them and said
you'd show me the way
you'd give me the manual
and lay out the path
and lead me on to places
I didn't want to go.
all the while the coal gathered dust
the light flicked away
and it grew cold
on the shelf.
It was during that time
that you laid claim to me
but you don't get the rest of me.
I picked it up today
and felt the rough weight of it's potential
against my warm palm.
Good things grow in the gardens of my mistakes
but that doesn't erase the regret.
You can blame me for it all, if that's what helps you rest in peace.
You can tell the world I didn't have to listen to you,
if you think that will grant you absolution.
No matter what it is you now say,
I still have to walk the path
you were trying to protect me from
because it was wide and open
and it splintered into paths infinitum
and in all it’s complexity and rich topiary
you thought there was only chaos.
But there is actually beauty
(the lie was thinking you could protect anyone from it).
I thought I’d have to turn back from certain trails
since you had already taken much from me
and they were steep and far too long a road for a drained soul.
But there is a difference between the hard necessary work of surviving the blows,
and the hard necessary work of coming alive.
I wrap my fingers securely around the atramental stone
I crack and bleed from the coarseness.
I blister and peel from the heat.
But it is mine to form
And I will not let go
for no man.