Everything close is indistinct,
all that is held seems stolen—
once was a gift, brilliant and true,
but the throne feels far away.
Where are the ones
who can hear and remember,
even who see but a little?
Where is he who moves among the garden?
There is a path we believe in,
but grapple to find
not imagine. Ache to love,
and search to please.
Quiet, still and listen
to the voice who stands outside you.
Still, until the silence bends
into the sky, seen emptiness,
and promise that cannot be broken.
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