Fleeting like a gazelle
Are visages that veil what’s buried in the deep;
Most see the surface alone and walk away,
Forgetting about what was hidden underneath.
But timeless is the watch
Of the sentry that for centuries
Treasured the pearl-like enclave
Clamped by what society deemed her shell.
She glares at the tease
of a put together construct,
Deceptively pieced together like hollow pottery;
For she knew she was empty inside.
In her eyes,
she’d take her fill of the cracked smile
emblazoned on her mildly parted lips
in subtle jest to the mess buried deep inside;
There must be more than this.
Harrowing out the bellows of her lot,
whether deserved or not
She beckons among the overgrowth of the willows
But His eye was on the sparrow,
From before time began,
Reaching out with a hand silently.
For He foresaw the marks
That chiselled at her slab like heart
Gouging and mauling and ravaging her being,
Knowing what she will become.
She called it broken, bloodied and torn,
But He, a work in progress.
What He saw when He looked at her,
Was not beauty.
He saw a masterpiece; Crafted by His very hand
The moment He said let there be.
He saw that it was good,
That it is good, and it will always be,
For the lines that aren’t perfect across her face
Demanded that justice be done,
But the flowing crimson spattered over her
Said that mercy has already come to pass.
That the skeletons locked away
risen and vanished,
They joined the ranks of a kind of Lazarus;
But different; they were new creations.
Shackles removed, chains crushed under the weight of
The brevity of three words:
“It is finished.”
She looked again upon the shore
wondering what others see.
They never really did see her.
But perhaps, just maybe…
Neither did she.