there is a place i go
when sleep has wrested control
that i cannot explain.
it is a hallway
with classrooms
on either side.
barbed wire
covers the doorways
and an impenetrable fog
permeates the hallway
and i cannot make out
the end of the hallway.
from the darkness of the fog
comes forth a mottled hand,
drenched in blackened blood.
every sense screams and pulls away
in fear
but still,
i move towards it.
the hand clutches at something;
a shape
my mind cannot fathom.
as i reach for the hand,
another sickly appendage grabs at me
and though i struggle
to wrestle free,
a part of me yearns to give in
to the fog.
it is then,
from deep within the mire,
a gravely voice whispers,

p o e n i t e n t i a m.

~lt

ah,
but darling,
you are free
precisely
when you wish to be.

~lt

your current circumstances,
no matter how bleak
or dismal,
are all integral
to the story of your redemption
that He is writing.

~lt

’tis a dismal state;
to be afforded insight
into much
yet lack the power
necessary.

~lt

from the mire
of iniquity
i,
graceless,
would ask
to not be forgotten
when the age of Light
shines on all that are found
deserving.

~lt

were it not
for my fondness
for sadness,
i’d not have a reason
to remember you.

~lt