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 Spirit Chimes

Thief of Sorrow

In youth I lived in a chamber
filled with the softest,
dream-scented air I could
subsist on for days,
and I believed if I just
opened the door, there it
would be:
a whole world of lilac and
living piped in from some
kind cosmos that takes
dreams seriously and rallies
around mortals
with eyes like candlelit champagne.

But no one showed up for the party.
Confetti flew like a cocktail-colored
tantrum all around this one body
and dusted my feet in one final gasp.
And then it happened:
nothing and everything,
days and months and years
and everything and nothing,
friends and non-friends
and the chamber growing smaller
(or me growing larger?)
and the cosmos looking like
haughty supernovas and quasars,
and I looking like the void
between them--light years of black
hunger between my broken dreams.

And that's when He came.
He must have visited me while
I was sleeping and snatched
it from my clenched fists:
He stole the part of me I
believed kept me alive.

And now I float like layers
of sky upon His breast.
Because He keeps it:
God keeps the cackling stars
of longing out of my reach.

Patricia Joan Jones

This poem received The Outstanding Quill Award at the Golden Quill poetry forum.

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