I can hear Her humming
through my windows
circling me

I settle in
on a bed of coal, caffeinated
under a shade of haze, contemplative
reflecting on my days, bewildered
by how I’ve survived

to come to know Her
as each breath slowed, eternal after all
every hair on end as She wafts in, above me
and then around me
She wisps, her song
flooding my skull
drenching my soul
drowning my heart in a pleasure
only known by those who
desperately bend to Her

as strummer of pure strings
the trumpeter to wake our Being
the drummer in our internal melody,
God’s personal performer
Who harnesses’ our bodies

She consumes me, compels me
to conceive, bleed out
bare witness to this world
I’ve been trusted to capture
and leave tracks, maps,
evidence of Her providence

I bend, breathe and please
because after I’m released
from my physical captivity,
I’ll sing
to beckon more souls
with prose and poetry,
calls from home


– B. Brown

(art by Winston Wachter)

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