From This Is Made Something Beautiful

As a child, confused by what I saw, I cried and prayed. "Give their pain to me," I said, because I loved hard, and too much, and cared even harder. And since, I've carried the weight of a million dying souls. Dying not of disease, but of disillusionment and despair. Where, I ask, is the spark and color of life and living amidst the darkness I witnessed? And, how do I let go of the heavy burden I requested and received? Only when summer draws to a close, when the lightening bugs glitter the night sky and set fire to my childlike heart, am I set free. And, when the cold comes and the sky greys, I am, again, constrained by that heaviness, always asking, "What was the purpose of their pain?" So, my lover holds me tight. He strokes my hair and wipes my tears and promises of a better tomorrow. In Spring, with sunken eyes and tired limbs, I beg for reprieve. It comes, bit by bit, and the sickness sheds its skin for renewal. It is then that the rush comes, one of faith and forgiveness for the journey I have been given. If paying attention, I see the spark, one that lasts only but a moment. And, for the rest of the year, my mind whispers while I write, with an almost imperceptible flame somewhere within. I dream of hands gathered round the glow, trying to conjure the blaze that will make my words ignite. From this is made something beautiful and, despite of the darkness, or because of it, I see color and have words.