"He exercised strength with His arm;
He scattered the proud in their heart's
-- Luke 1:51
My hands used to be tied by sneers and smoke
behind my back or
before my face.
The touchy triggers of minds that never hug
shot my cheesecloth through in unfair duels,
filled my soul with holes and handcuffed
the few human remains.
Once the smoke cleared from the lead-loaded
and they saw me cry, (in front of the gathering crowd),
they holstered their guns again and said they could
now be my friend.
My hands are tied by whatever hair might
trigger the next back-attack or fire-in-my-face.
I am weary of watching for the gun barrels,
weary from dreaming of another short-fuse
set to accuse even my whispered words in the dark
with no one listening.
So I roll over like they hope I will,
silence my longings and only hope a
will wrestle away their weapons
and let me speak once again.
Poem © 2006 Mark Phillips, all rights reserved
appears here by permission
Illustration created by and © K.L.Storer, all rights reserved