returned to sender

rising this morning with the weight of sixty six days on my shoulder i was defeated. the angel-warrior had pushed me down with the kind of indifference you dream of when nightmares come. in the light of sacred grace i swear i don’t understand it. or i do understand it, and that is what has made me weak this day. 'i can't.' 'i can't.' 'i can't.' and all at once i am made sick with terror – the terror of care pushed down in the space of one, the terror of human grace grown thin with age, the terror of empty gifts left unopened, made small, returned to sender. returned to sender. returned to sender. [i still dream of the light. do you?]