Oh how I wish to behold Thee, Not for proof, But for love. A gnawing reaching, A subtle tug at my chest. It keeps me awake at night. When will I see Thee? Within I see naught, hear naught, feel naught, Naught but a mundane, fragile, fleeting stillness, A razor's edge impossibly thin to hold Thee. My soul parched from longing, Sleep eludes me in the Desert of Sehnsucht, As the cries of my soul roll across the desolate expanse for my Beloved: When will I see Thee? Feeble yet faltering attempts of surrender, A worm struggling to fly, An impossible hope, an unreachable goal, No limbs to reach for the sky. Grace I cannot beg, The path I cannot run. I crawl, painfully slow, Until I wilt in the sun. — January 18th, 2025
After I wrote this poem, something like a prayer came:
God, I honor Thee in the silence,
Thy sacred language.
Let words dissolve in Love.
And to my surprise, a response arose, not heard, but felt:
Thy faith has given thee wings. Now fly to Me.
Update (Dec 8, 2025)
The wings have unfolded. Read the unexpected sequel:
