The Low Hum of the Humidifier

The low hum of the humidifier

chokes silently

breathing plumes of smoke

into the air

a false halo

encircles my daughter's head

her cherubic face

slumbers

lonely eyes drift

into silent oblivion

faraway places call her

in this life

instead of friends

just cold steel

an apple clutched

inside sweaty palms

her days begin

rushing down a ravine

the soul

of a soldier embattled

bleeding on jagged

rocks

a nomad

wandering from room

to room

seeking sanctuary

"How can I find her, Lord?"

My prayers begin past midnight

are not eloquent but ferocious

groping

a tireless face lying

on floors

cheeks rubbed raw

as to bruise them

on asphalt

rivers of carbonated

drink

clumsy hands

have spilled

over the years on

floors of dejection

the years that were lost

not dying

to the desires

of my wishes

But a Cyclops gaze

fixated

over the only child You gave

as prisoners

unable to escape

the anguish of flesh

constantly apologizing

for its destruction

vapors from my love

rise

I taste the saltiness

of suffering

not worthy of it

nor worthy of You

"I'm sorry Lord"

dirty anger betrays

Jesus

I am more angry at me

than at You

More shredded

than whole

"Oh God,

take the Vinedresser's

knife to prune me"

The other day,

teachers

with a signature

dismissed her from school

for the rest of her life

I turn to a pillar of salt

into a pillar of madness

frozen

and disheveled

without knees to pray

weak

my knees disintegrated

into ashes

"I need to collapse

just rip up the pieces

and go home, Lord."

Black tears from eyeliner

do not waltz down cheeks

silence rips the screams

from my heart

so the people upstairs

do not hear

the low hum of the humidifier

join my

sobs of

"ABBA FATHER"

Scriptures tied

to the edges of a mind

as white flags

of submission

"No more war against The Lord"

I laid down my weapons

and arrogance

of sin

snores join the chorus

where angels do not sing

Every word is a plea for escape

every prayer breathing

"It didn't work out down here."

The low hum of the humidifier

seems to sing

a hymn of praise

to lift up To The Most High

to say with Job

and the saints of old

who wandered in dens and caves

"Though He slay me, yet will I trust Him."

(Job 13:15)

Hymns the homeless

sing as they gaze into the stars

knowing that He knows each by name

throwing a kiss into the night

shames me

The low hum of the humidifier

becomes silent

the plumes of smoke

dissipate

the still small voice

utters what cannot

be uttered

I feel the caress of the Lord

bandage

me

pouring oil

and my spirit sings.

(Taken from Emma, Sometimes I'm Like a Tornado by Matty B. Duran for sale on Amazon.com)