Still Water

It caught my eye in the Autumn.
In the wonder of Winter, I stop!
Still the truth I chase.
In battle, happiness will not suffice.
What can I offer? My words? A blood sacrifice? 

Now in the weeks of the great and holy.
I see a raven perched on a mountain of skulls.
There, a closed golden door, and I feel the heat.
Offering nihilism, as a religion of my future.
Surprisingly so tempting.

Am I loosing my faith or casting it away?
In this mustum, the truth I do not taste.
Falsehood, with good intentions.
Still I knock, still a focus on the tabernacle.

I'm not educated enough to articulate
my thought process.
So each line I write in hope.

My mind knows I'm no a papist, 
my protestations lately lay quiet.
I've been scrolling the scrolls of the world.
Still, in my heart where miracles start, I believe
the word became flesh and dwelt amongst us.

Alone I pray in the candle light,
each flicker warms my soul.
Through the tears I pray. I cry until I write.
My hand and heaven in perfect harmony.

I kiss the Theotokos and the Christ child.
I think of my wife holding our first born son as a baby.

As the sword, me and her forged in flames.
The foundation of the future a hidden treasure
we've carried.
Forged with the same heavenly hands that moulded
my heart.
A heart that yearns tradition.

The bell rang, and I awoke to holy chants,
in the aroma of incense and the company of saints.
There was peace from above, a heavenly coming together.

It never forced itself upon me,
I searched it, I knocked, it answered.

We worshiped. And together, we discovered orthodoxy.