The hills are black with soft gold

edges, splashed by morning light, and

stars still linger in the heavens, resting

in the night, still lasting, long enough to

say that for everything you’ve ever done,

I cannot repay you for your kindness or

your love, nor your faith, and yet you still

come rising like the golden sun up

behind the hills, across, across, the

endless dark, a beacon to the vagrant,

you wash their lives with sunlight gold

and call out to the vacant hollows

of the night, cold night, that which they made

their home, and we wander, filthy, from the

shadows, shaking and alone, into your

arms, your open arms, spread open

‘cross the tree, we hang our burdens

on the thorns, you’re broken, we’re

set free.

Categories: Poetry | Leave a comment

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