My Life: My Shelter

My life: my shelter. And trumpets echo silence. Thus we
Harvest spirit. But shattered nerves, bleed the soul; and
Patient death, wounds the core. We kneel, the sightless prayer.
And such tempest, a martyrs bliss. But strong contempt, a
Skeptic storm. Thus we howl, a virgin’s pain; and thus we
Plead, the faith of Christ. But tearful tombs—plague the soul;
And fallen grace—ruptures heart. Thus the soil, fraught with
Bane; and thus the life, leaking pain.

My life: my shelter. And trumpets echo silence. Thus we
Harvest spirit. But fractured prayers, pierce the soul; and mortal
Fears, taint the core. We die, clawing hope: we rise, gnawing
Faith. And such friction, a saintly myth. But life, a hidden
Grain; and death, a mystic ache. Hence we perish, stippled with
Scars; and hence we perish, proud of pain.