Eight months of dirty hands and tears
Sighs that last longer than a normal breath
Looks that linger and surpass a glance
Feet that become dwarfed in Your prints
Knees that bear bruises of my dependence
Fingers that are learning to hold my weapon
Eyes that focus on something unseen
Lips that move to encase You in adoration
A mind that recognizes lies as intruders
Prayers that push their way through religious barriers
A resolve that survives the furnace of fire
Hope that refuses to decay in the waiting
And a spirit that trades chains for flight.
