The preaching poet, the fraudulent monarch,
Gone silent, has he!
Gathering his possessions, only six shekels to his name,
He spent his last coin and stowed away on a ship,
Setting sail upon the sea.
His brothers seemingly don't see the tempest drawing nigh:
They see his ship leave the harbor
But do not bid him goodbye.
As the tides shift beneath, he puts his pen to paper,
"Those days are behind me, shouldn't my heart be free?
Or shall I sleep on the ocean floor?"
Chronic insomniac, all color turned black,
His restless nights drop anchor:
Nevermore wakes he unto daylight.
Now nightmare's inhabitant, dark terror, his habitat
Like an animal left to run wild.
Yet , the clouds -- in a sudden transparency -- bring him calm.
The waters remain tides as if to defy the light.
Safety's an apparent illusion as water seeps through the cracks,
But a voice calls out,
"My child, be still!"
The longgone Father in prodigal son's eyes,
Calling him home to the highway by deluge, paved:
"Don't be afraid, do not believe the lies.
Your feet were meant to tread these waves.
The selfish shroud, the veil over your eyes,
Flees with every storm, forever to be gone!"
The silenced, I was, but now I do see:
My words are reserved for when the Spirit leads me.
Gone silent, has he!
Gathering his possessions, only six shekels to his name,
He spent his last coin and stowed away on a ship,
Setting sail upon the sea.
His brothers seemingly don't see the tempest drawing nigh:
They see his ship leave the harbor
But do not bid him goodbye.
As the tides shift beneath, he puts his pen to paper,
"Those days are behind me, shouldn't my heart be free?
Or shall I sleep on the ocean floor?"
Chronic insomniac, all color turned black,
His restless nights drop anchor:
Nevermore wakes he unto daylight.
Now nightmare's inhabitant, dark terror, his habitat
Like an animal left to run wild.
Yet , the clouds -- in a sudden transparency -- bring him calm.
The waters remain tides as if to defy the light.
Safety's an apparent illusion as water seeps through the cracks,
But a voice calls out,
"My child, be still!"
The longgone Father in prodigal son's eyes,
Calling him home to the highway by deluge, paved:
"Don't be afraid, do not believe the lies.
Your feet were meant to tread these waves.
The selfish shroud, the veil over your eyes,
Flees with every storm, forever to be gone!"
The silenced, I was, but now I do see:
My words are reserved for when the Spirit leads me.
NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: This poem is written based upon ongoing off-and-on writer's block, career uncertainty and personal growth I've been experiencing over the past year (beginning in early 2016). God has been growing me in many ways and guided me through the seasons which become tiring, and the lack of inspiration for writing that I've been dealing with recently has had me frustrated; but then I realized that my words should be guided by the Holy Spirit, as I used to allow them. I can't force Him to speak, which may seem like writer's block, but it's really just the Holy Spirit saying "Be still for the time being."
