When Words Fail

I’m here to write
but the words fail to come forth.

Words which in my own past destroyed,
rise up and choke my vocal cords.
The pen in my hand refuses
to cooperate.

I turn to books.

Words fill the books
which surround me in my study –
a place of solitude where I tease out
solutions to life’s important questions.

But as soon as an answer arises from a page
a second lunges forth to silence and stifle it!
Words which promised to satisfy my deepest desires
disappoint and become an empty well.

Thirsty still, I sift the grit
through my teeth, gulping down
the brackish water dug from the pages, swallowing text
to rehydrate my parched mind, body, and soul.

From ancient times we’ve wrestled with
ways to interpret stories which examine life on this planet
of plentitude and beauty – but too full
of pain, suffering, and destruction.

If the Earth is against us, how then
can we trust the Divine to be for us?

If storm clouds can drown out all voices,
can we rely upon a Creator to provide?

Do we humans, formed from the dust,
exist merely to devour fellow dust-creatures?

Why have many become hateful, spewing forth venom,
devising evil that knows no bounds?

Perhaps it’s easier to mimic the Deceiver,
the serpent from ages past, cursed to eat dust all of its life
than to mirror the artist, the Master Storyteller
who ascribed beauty and goodness to all creation.

Yet, we dream. We hope. We fill books
with stories, imagining a place where goodness reigns,
where dust-creatures dwell together in peace
beneath the shelter of the Living Word.