Joy

Sometimes it defies me
and I am left groping about in the basement,
the exhaustion of yesterday’s staircases
sending me downwards
in silence and damp.

But there are eyes
that see the bruises which I stroke
and faces which know bruises worse
than any I have known today
and kept their smile.

And there is joy
which death has proven strong;
it bears my scars like nails
and stands in wait until I take
its hand into the day.

And there are arms
which reach into my basement and
hold what wounds I cannot know
and light a fire, bright and clear
in the anguish of the dark.

Published by Matthew Pullar

Teacher, writer, blogger, husband, father, Christian. Living in Wyndham in Melbourne's west, on the land of the Kulin Nation. Searching for words to console and feed hearts and souls.

2 thoughts on “Joy

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