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."