grace is renaming as mining. The desert years searched and sifted
scorched earth burning away until what is lifted and remaining
is a self that never left,
but was hidden, like that little girl in the closet
plugging ears and singing songs to shut out the fears that never drifted away,
that shifted to stay.
These are the new days not fresh and unstained but believing
that what remains is hope. Like coffee circles on the table top they loop
around the heart and head to declare the things we have seen
will not be made unseen, but the stains don't make us unclean.
We are those that survived and figured ourselves the survivor
without seeing that we have a revivor.
Emptiness was the lied assumption of what was left but one revived is filled full of breath.
We've called out for shade, for rest, gasped for air, screeched its unfair,
torn into this dessert dust filled with bones. Our bones, worn marrow splintered with new breath.
We're the living remnant, and though we've seen death
its cold socket eyes can not steal whats left
because its new and its shared and its proof of the fallen
taking steps on new feet that have been call'n to walk and tell the stories
And they'll be pain and they'll be laughter. Truth is no stranger to disaster.
And we'll make more miners in the desert
finding breath in their bones
mining flesh out of stones.
