I could speak to you of longing,
but it's nothing I'd convey
in simplicity of language
or in feeble words confessed.

What is it that I long for?
What calls my soul to breathe?

The deepest, darkest moments
of my inner life's lament
become the truest lies untelling
of the useless time I've spent.

There are things beyond this moment ~
things seen with more than eyes

This comes from understanding
that there is more to me than this
and the things I find surround me
aren't intended to be missed

But they beg to be examined
for the proof of what's inside

But I'll wait confused and broken
hoping trust and faith resolve,
taking images of Eden
to make postcards of my home


Writing prompt from A Writer's Book of Days: "Write about yearning."

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