in the hour of silence by Margaret Stacy
- Lit Loesche
- May 13, 2024
- 1 min read
you are my origin,
my point zero.
the soil from which I grew;
the sky from which I flew.
you linger
in all my marrow.
every signal sent to nerves;
every goosebump on my skin.
the warm, thick blood
that squeezes through my veins.
you are the very fibers
that complete my stomach.
the bile that burns
my throat.
you are the muscles
that push it back down.
if you form everything that I am,
why can I never reach you?
my face is wet clay
that you continue to mold.
my heart, cooling lava
that you continue to fan.
if you control all that I am,
why do you let me lose it all?
I am your modern Job,
but I still question
how the breath of winter
is also a spring flower,
how the beginning of life
is also its end.