Raging, when the waiting’s hard;
seething as the shackles call.
Crying in the midst of pain.
Doubled up enduring shame.
An echo trapped within my core
can resonate and damn my soul.
This howl of rage can only frame
the yearning need to escape my blame.
Searing wounds jar melodic strains;
they echo with no friend to name.
The rawness of the strident call
flows in-between death’s awful pall.
All rivers trapped must find their flow.
For all things course to places low.
So when true life oe’r flows what’s numb,
that’s when sweet grace and mercy come.
Author – Bill Tidsbury