I have been anaesthetised by the deep,
like you, and here under a starless sky
I’ve found a home: a place absent of light
where I can sleep. No doves rest on
the crest of solemn gates I seek to greet
with unquiet praise – instead the wretched
souless wraiths have gathered round
with hauter flavor: a fitting station
for those in limbo of His grace.
Cold as winter’s breath are the hearts
of those behind these gates and their shivers
are enough to shake both worlds which men
consider to be night or day. But the words
He whispers still echo in this hallowed land—
so much, it’s strange, the lending of a foreign hand.
(c) Joshua Biddle 2011