My mother would wake me…

My mother

Would wake me

For church every Sunday

After hours of

Dark, teenage dreams

I would find salvation in

Those waking moments

In her kiss

I would find warmth

In her touch

The strength to overcome



and Sin

With her voice

I was raised from

The rubble and debris

Of a young teenage mind

It echoed through to

The shadows of my thoughts

And pulled them

Into the light

Where they were

Cut with the grace and care

Of a gentle shepherd

Whose brown eyes

Formed the shears

That would trim my sins

Creating space for



and Truth

Now living

On my own

I spend my Sundays asleep

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