Empty room

How have I grown so afraid of this place,

stark and frameless, patina of footsteps,

so individual that I can hear my spirit breathe.

How have I forgotten that I must stand here

in the empty room, spread my arms wide

and call for you in this echo chamber.

Sometimes I don’t recognize my own voice.

Lord, there are always so many things to do, to say

to retrieve and remember, and I am holding just one life–

my own. Where are your hands in the white that washes

everything this sun-kept gold? Where is evidence

of a resurrection that I can follow in my own life? Where

are your Words within the scape of this fallow? Lord,

what do I do first–believe, obey, sit motionless and wait?

Entering is always a posture no matter the door chosen,

and we always find ourselves in the uninhabited only to hear:

He is not here.

My own salvation is this mecca. Daily. As much as it takes.

By Prof. Snell

Poetry is my thing!

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