Notes About The Poem
This is my life story wrapped up in poetry. Many won't understand, yet many will.
The Open Gate
I grew up in the shadow of the wire,
where freedom was a field under a guard,
and false prophets built cages out of fire,
to keep a child confined within the yard.
They called it order, structure, and alignment—
a heavy system built to tame the spark—
where every holy voice faced its confinement,
and truth was left to suffer in the dark.
Then came the dream: a table and a fence,
two preachers speaking of a mantle's weight.
They stepped outside, with holy-toned pretense,
and paused before me at the open gate.
He asked me of the bruise upon my shoulder,
the purple mark where heavy hands had pushed.
“I fell,” I said, though as the air grew colder,
I knew the truth their systems had so hushed.
But men don't hold the oil or the calling,
They do not own the sky or govern flight.
And while they calculated all my falling,
The heavens opened up with blinding light.
With my very own eyes, beyond the earthly ceiling,
I saw the right hand of the Lord descend—
He touched my head with absolute, deep healing,
And marked the place where human rules must end.
I hear the whisper on the gravel drive:
“You have the freedom. You are outside now.”
The bruise is just the proof I am alive,
His holy touch is resting on my brow.
So here I stand, beside the open spaces,
No longer held, no longer bound to stay.
I shine a light back toward the caged-in places,
And hold the gate for those who run away.
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