Sigh – Mulled Psalm 18

Deadness slithers across our spirits.
We are zombies, paltry not grand
parents, sure we’ll never be great grand.
Daytime sleepwalkers, we are plagued,
bitten, beaten, itchy. We feel
our way, step by stumbling step, day
by disjointed day with fleeting views.

You expunge our dread of failure.
In silence beyond disappointment
we step off problem-solving treadmills
to apply Your healing ointments:
breezes, outdoor sounds and scents, rhythms
of breath, heartbeat, pulse and footstep.
Listening Love is here, now, everywhere!

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