Storyteller

I find myself leaning in as I listen to my story as it pours from my own lips. It seems distant like a memory long washed away be the abrading fingers of time which scrape away all of the pain left to hinder my focus.

I listen intently in an effort to find life, a giant birthed out of the ashes; what was long seared to fade and fog. It is there as I press my ears to what lies beyond words, I hear your voice. “Broken pots spill more water” you say. Fill me with your river, Lord and I’ll wash the world.