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he grinned.
This is Him.
Jesus.
Only Jesus.
He was the Messiah,
promised on the earth.
The spirit of truth.
He would soften hearts.
He was the Master.
He loved.
I do believe, Lord.
Help my unbelief.

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Pith

I do not have anything meaningful within me,
she mused.  Mostly it is this shallow blackness,
deeply rooted in some rocky heart.
I don’t know if you want it.

I looked up the definition and they told me
it was a muscle that contracts and dilates,
bringing life to where life can’t reach on its own,
shriveling up and expanding to the tune of some
tireless divine drummer.

A tangled web of contradictions is nestled
in the cold waters of a soul long-dead.
You may use what you can of me,
but be warned that it is not much.

In the shadow of that tree trunk cross
she sat, fading away into the trees and the air around her.
I don’t think this wrung-out mind can think much more,
she mused.  Half the time it sings praises,
but usually it just exists.

She was a broken stained-glass window,
dirty and cracked but filtering some sort of dusty light
through her marbled pane.
She faced outward, overlooking the cars that drove past the church,
afraid of who she might find if she turned around.

In the woods she found him,
waiting at the edge of the lake.
She thrust her dried-out heart at him and swore he would find it lacking.
High above the glassy water,
she wept for something she didn’t understand.

I don’t understand why love is so contradictory,
she mused.  How it can breeze in and away like a storm
or a scent.
This isn’t how it is supposed to be.

I don’t understand why people are like love,
too inaccessible and temporal.
Why do we promise a love we neither see nor believe?
This is wrong, she says.

And then this: some loud whisper of solace.

She was a broken stained-glass window but she was bright nonetheless.
Too colorful for her own good but
too close to shattering with the right amount of sun.
Her eyes are losing as the brilliance awakens the night.

If it means living forever, I can die once,
she mused.  If it means this torn-up heart can be patched anew,
I will let you own it.
They told me it when it expands it is only preparing to shrink again,
but maybe with you it will be different.

Maybe the pumping of one Heart can suffice for all the life that must circulate.
Maybe, she mused, there was a difference between being undead and being immortal.
Splitting the glass with a water-worn stone,
she let the light all the way through.

If this was love that could be seen through,
she believed she finally wanted it.