The night is my canvas.
My soul a paint brush,
guiding me through this gallery ,
which I have walked before.
My feet were bare and scarred with thorns.
My dress was torn in a forgotten struggle.
I closed this door.
How did it open again?
Though we place locks upon our doors ,
hiding secrets from ourselves and wandering eyes,
they always manage to find us.
We cannot paint over,
just appreciate and know that it is all right .
You came to me in the silence ,
while I stood and pondered ,
with balm for my feet and pure water for my soul.
You washed my eyes gently ,so that I might see truly
your hands around my heart.
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