Peniel

my steps fumble and the

the words ruby red 

mirrors of before 

identity a reflection 

meaning: the curve of vision 

turned to apply all that i know to what i know

my days a catalog of agency-

a game, to see how alike i can become without

Him

i lift my pen up up up 

turn the bridge of my nose just so–

a dopamine hit every time i see them say

“yes and amen.”

my teeth in that apple 

into flesh unholy 

unholy communion with self 

I have done it - arriving 

grid-lines a pedestal to say despite my wounds 

I’m back together, a pen

my sword - I list the ways they have hurt me,

the ways I have risen again after falling.

the apple now just a core and I tire of tasting 

that i - by my hand - i am atop a Throne fit for a king 

of the Island, a King. 

a King.

I wrestle as the night turns over 

into dawn - into morning 

the river bank only a bedroom.

let me go, for it is daybreak.

the limp in my stride - apparent again.

i remember that i am dust. 

my pen laid down to welcome the onslaught of quiet, 

and my saltwater nose to the bulbous sky 

a rotunda of His Delights 

that contains this prodigal 

coming home, for the hundredth time that day. 

falling again. He lifts my face 

and again. 

and again.

again.