Of where I have been.

But here I am.

“The hand of the Lord came upon me and brought me out in the Spirit of the Lord, and set me down in the midst of the valley; and it was full of bones.”

-The Prophet Ezekiel

The paint has dried and faded. Acrylic hues become a mysterious tale. Stories of a passion poured out upon the canvas. Faint eyes cut through the weathered mess, giving wonder to the gift that once was. Wondering what could have been. What should have been. But it found them. In time the mind had forgotten. What once defined had abandoned its home with each tick and each tock.

Dissonant chords play from rusted strings. Unable to match the correct note. In desperation, any note. But there is none but the sound of failure. An occasional memory breaks the silence in the attempt to play a melody. But they’re gone. The chords. The scales. The majors and the minors. Sharps and flats. They all play an inaudible dirge now. A sad ode to once was. It found them as well. Memories now rehearse.

The pen writes unseen words. Only the mind knows what should adorn the pages. Another sun sets on things left unsaid. The white parchment hides sentences that will never be spoken or read. Another voice fades into obscurity. Another voice becomes the shadow on the sidelines. It found them as well. No one hears the deafening that haunts.

“And He said to me, ‘Son of man, can these bones live?’ So I answered, ‘O Lord God, You know.’”

-The Prophet Ezekiel

These hands. These hands are calloused. Cracking and aching to the bone. Years of hard work with nothing to show for. For the things that could have made a difference have found their own grave. Time will tell the story. That everything that they have worked will wither in the rain and be scorched by the sun. Like the unfinished vessel of earth. These calloused hands. Dry and bitter.

A warrior once valiant now retired. Exhausted.

For the body is weighed down by the bearing of Time. Pain becomes the friend at the dawning of a new day. It is the enemy by midnight. Gray hairs embrace the wrinkles as two friends that have not seen one another in forever. They speak of times when the paint was fresh, the melody was beautiful, and words moved desolate men. But now all they have is the now. An uncertain future as the candle burns at both ends. They have just the strength to encourage the other for one last time. This is the tragedy in the heart of the king. And heavy hangs the head that wears this rusted crown. Stiffened neck cries out. They know that there is another chance as long as Time persists. These hands can still twist the affect. Despite the age and their state of wear and tear. For these dim eyes see a world collapsing in despair. Anything, even a drop of The Light faint in the coming Dusk will do. He will never know until he moves. To remain idle would stain the deathbed with regrets.

“So I prophesied as I was commanded; and as I prophesied, there was a noise, and suddenly a rattling; and the bones came together, bone to bone. Indeed, as I looked, the sinews and the flesh came upon them, and the skin covered them over; but there was no breath in them.”

-Ezekiel The Prophet

With one last breath clinging to one last chain of Hope, the time has dawned to see fresh paint, strum consonant chords, and to write the words that rend The Heavens. A chance to bid the blood to run. For the heart of stone to become flesh. This one more time. This Time.

“So I prophesied as He commanded me, and breath came into them, and they lived, and stood upon their feet…”

-Ezekiel The Prophet

Of where I’ve been.

Lord, here I am.

Again.