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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required My hair was cut too short today by a middle aged Russian lady. I get out of the chair, pay her a dollar tip, then walk out into the cool, sunny afternoon. I know memory colors time, and a shaved head is much like a rebirth. Even now in my chosen silence (the placeless guilt of an un-greeted roommate now home), My hibernating darkness (the unworthy desire of sanctuary), Even here, I seem to fabricate my own grace. We have stairs, and descend them, down into darkness. We look back, time after time, making sure we can still see the light From the door high above. Down we go in hope that we find what we’re looking for And that something will bring us running back up with mad joy, Or a pleasurable stillness of mind, With the aim to use our new treasure For the good of outside, the others of our time here. With lamb-like innocence we play this game Though the steps are never the same And the light from upstairs Is never solved nor snared... You cut my hairs And these steps fall away from me. And the treasure is doubted and I become new and strange to myself and Scared and sinless and bare. Bearing only now, witness, To God’s true grace. We find him with nothing. This being our Arrival. The desperate cry of salvation Answered from every corner of the mind. (Every step left to find.) Now light, light! The candles running down these darkened walls! (They were there the whole time.)
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