The Deep Water of My Soul
I carry a message deep inside my chest,
a quiet storm, a sacred word,
but when I hold it out to others,
they look at the dust on my hands instead.
"Oh ok," they say, with a careless shrug,
or a nod that flattens the sky to rock.
They count the bark on a rotting tree,
while I alone feel the forest breathe.
It hurts to speak into a dynamic light
to eyes that are attuned to the shades of black,
to watch the truths that burn inside my very being
be swept away like dust.
No ear to catch the undertow,
no voice to match the frequency—
a language built for depth and ache,
trapped inside the core of me.
I look to the left, I look to the right,
on a winding road through mountain paths,
with no one to walk beside me
or take this weight from my tired hands.
So I let the surface keep its calm,
I’ll stop trying to make them see.
The ocean doesn't ask the shore
to understand the depth of the blue sea.
The road does not demand a crowd
to prove that it is true,
and though the silence presses in so loud,
the path still carries me.
Let the shallow waters stay behind,
unmindful of the rising tide—
some paths are meant for one,
with all of Heaven by my side.
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