poem written based upon this image--online poetry class assignment
poem submitted to "1492" poetry contest, Brian Strand, sponsor, July 27, 2026.
The night comes down like iron, cold on my shoulders, pressing its verdict into bone. I walk through the ruins of myself~ rooms gutted by old hungers, mirrors cracked from staring too long at my own small griefs. Every shadow hisses its familiar gospel of failure. I almost believe them. Then~ a thin gold seam splits the rubble. Not loud. Not triumphant. Just steady. Christ steps through the fracture, dust rising around His feet like surrendered ghosts. He does not flinch at the wreckage. He touches the broken lintel as if it were a beloved brow. My darkness folds inward, ash collapsing into ash~ and still His light keeps blooming in the hollows. I stand there, ruined and radiant, a house on fire with mercy.
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Be the first to comment on this poem. Encourage this poet.
