Where is Heaven, that it can tend my wounds
Where is Heaven, that it can tent my wounds
By Tony DeLorger © 2011
Where is heaven, that it can tend my wounds and soothe the agony of my breaking heart? How can it find me before my aching body recants clinging to earthly life? My ineptitude of being, my suffering surely warrants a passage to heaven, the joy and reward of a life ever after for a life attempted.
I was no saint, I am human, but I engaged life with firm footing and valued love above all else. In the end it has perhaps forsaken me, my choices left wanting. But I at least devoted myself to pursuit. How my heart aches, like shattered glass, each piece a remnant of endless disappointment, deception and abandonment. My heart now dries, fragile glass now turning to leather, edges curling eventual dust.
Where is heaven, that it can bid my passage, refill my loss, give testament to my hope? The darkness in life can sometimes urge the falling, the noxious sleep of participation. Lost in a world of bitter recollection, one can void the joy of being; reject the loving hand of possibility. It is this darkness that sometimes swallows life and stills the beating heart. But earthly life ensues, regardless, as if stone we can wander earth oblivious, broken.
Struggle then is my course, until I am found. My head inches above the cloud of oppression, searching light, a dim distant light that singularly beckons me to hold on, to grasp a single strand of hope. I long for the sun’s gentle warmth upon my face, the knowledge that what is left has promise. I cling to simple things; a breath of clean air from a lilting breeze. I consider where it’s been, who it has blessed and where it will end. Perhaps these minute pleasures will save me from my tomb.
Inch by inch I approach the light, my limbs like iron, dragging. They are the weight of my pain remaining in memory. Each step a reflection of the agony of loss and rejecting love. I try to ignore this world of misplace, this pariah of vision. It separates me, keep me off balance. I don’t want to remain reclusive, entombed in a broken shell. I want to see the light, feel what life is, once was.
How often I dream of past, embraced in the memory of youth, when love was born and hearts were open. The visions of abandon haunt me, the freedom of life without fear. When I awaken, the flood of reality washes away my visions like confetti down a drain. I wake to the darkness of mistrust and fear, a harsh world of war and hate engulfs my body like a toxic mist and I am helpless, again.
Why do I see all this, my mind razor-sharp to the intensity? It lays me down to a dream of deathly images, a parade of cloaked malevolence, creeping, infiltrating at the edge of knowing. They torment me, hold me down and make me watch the future, the intolerable future of our folly.
Where is heaven, that it can soothe my ills, remove my memory and give birth to me again, so I may recollect purity? I beg for sight, not death, but the profound transformation of life on earth. I plead for love to return to my heart, to my fearful heart, to rejuvenate my will and to surrender to possibility and belief.
Heaven can be earth, it is not too late. If I can only feel the possibility, then it can be possible. Where is heaven; it is within reach, within potential. If not me, let my children know life without fear, life with promise. Let them find love.
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