Unloved Silence Poem by Rachel Aurelien

Lord, how long will these dove flap their wings
And land on my window sill
And sing in their quietness
Their eyes have nothing to say
And their steps are filled with patience
Time has no meaning on leaving, but
arrives at the birth of sunrise.

Lord, when will my flower grow in the calling of your name?
And cut the grass to show off my roots
When will you shine the light on my shrivelled petals?
And feed me the rain that drips of your wings
Why do you let the crows peck on my leaves?
And eat the rest of me.

Lord why is that, my curtains are open in the day, but all I see is the night
I see the stars are not in my view, hidden in someone else's sight
The missing reflection of the moon is left in the sea, like me.

Lord, I kept your words, the words I thought you'll say
In a jar near my bedside, in hope these words will be written
By your feathers and dipped in the blood of your son
Seeing the same two doves questions me
Is there a sign I haven't seen?

Lord, when will the leaves fall upwards from my tree of my knowledge?
And catch the apples that fell from the eye of the self-centred.
Will you be able to heal the bruise I received from the apples they threw?
Can you make them wrinkle like the fruit with mould that's been overdue?
They are the enemies that grow from the bullies' yard
If I eat from them I will only be sick
Who will make me well, if I slip in the sewage of their clean water?

Lord, why does my fears make time to torture my soul
And light a fire in the night in the corner
Can you reach me and get me out without the touch of their sight
Why do I still hear the laughter from my terror?
The tremble of my voice, and the shaken off my leg keeps them alive
Where can I find my strengths?
In your closed fists!

Lord, why do I wash myself clean in spirit and see my sheets stained with dirt
I may repent a thousand times, but see no angel surround me
Every prayer I say I wait for a reply, kneeling all night for an answer. When the mood hits me when I awake,
I will be punished and burnt by your rod
How long will my eyes be swollen?
How long will it take to heal?
Why do I dream of running on water,
with a treadmill far from the hill?
Running to the light, but it always fades away.

Lord, why can't our spirits be close friends? I can't keep standing in the distance, yelling out my prayers
My voice is tired and my ears hurt from my screaming echoes
But I will stand here in the cold, facing the back of your robe
Can I hope not in disappointment, but in your beautiful presence?
Or will my sorrows bury me, past the graveyard and under the marbled alter?