Tia
They said that if she
were to die by her own hand
it would have already happened.
See there’s more for her
God has planned,
more than she’ll ever understand.
She was a canvas of layers
adorned in various brush strokes
I long to dip my my brush into the easel
of voices;
The confusing and sad strokes I’d like to cover up.
Mesmerized by the contours of her life,
I stepped closer, to get a close up.
I see every tear that
falls from her eyes
and onto her face.
Infact, I know them
all by name.
Sometimes with the edges of my fingers,
I trace the layers painted upon her by others.
The rough and jagged edges I feel first
that rebel against my fingertips.
I can see now the versed words that were spoken,
The ones well rehearsed. The ones heard by her
Again and again.
I trace the smooth patterns with wonder.
I feel the areas that are still wet and dripping
the damp center of the canvas
that has not yet had time to dry.
I know every fear
she clutches tight against her chest
I know the ones
no one could ever attempt to guess.
I’ll never forget that night
where we sat in the stench of gas
with only the moon to expose our paths,
as we let our tears run dry.
Then we brushed our cheeks
and followed the light that
gives meaning to our lives,
brings glory out of our mistakes,
the One who breathes life into us,
each and every day.
