Crimson
A poem . . .
Weeping willow heartbeats
Curled in so tight
Head caves into chest
Aged eyes are dim
She does her best to be unlocked from the tunnel vision
But seems to stumble more than rising
She sends fragrances up but smells nothing
She communes with her Creator and although He is in the room
The presence of Him feels like nothing
Her emotions are shadowed and are like an upside-down domino
About to unravel
A wind appears
She cannot grasp it, but it tells her it is there
She cannot see it, but it manifests by-products
She cannot hold it, but it holds her
The breeze ushers in the bread
The whistle opens the pages of the loaf
It nourishes the emptiness, loneliness, and insecurities
She eats the true manna that was and is and is to come
She swallows it down with crimson
She is reminded that believing is more important than feeling
Her heart pitter patters with assurance and delight
As she then stands upright
Head is raised with uncomplicated compassion
His eyes lock within hers as They say without any words
“I AM closer than a wet sash, the bone and marrow, and remain in-between all of your sweet little heartbeats”
Scripture Inspiration: John 3:8 and 6:22-40 Thoughts?!
I would love to know how this poem spoke to you. Feel free to comment. As most of you know, I am taking a break from the mainstream feed out on Substack but I will check and respond to comments in my long forms. Blessings beautiful ones 🖤
A song…
Here is a song that moves me . . . even if you are not twenty-four (which most of us are not), it’s good.
*Photo Recognition: Kim Musalimov on Unsplash. Thank you!
What you’ve written names a spiritual experience many people are afraid to admit out loud: the absence of felt presence in the midst of real presence. The opening images—curled posture, tunnel vision, dim eyes—aren’t just emotional descriptors; they’re embodied. The soul isn’t abstract here. It lives in a body that has folded in on itself to survive.
What feels especially honest is that prayer doesn’t immediately resolve anything. She communes with her Creator, He is in the room, and yet “the presence of Him feels like nothing.” That line refuses spiritual performance. It tells the truth about seasons where faith is not sensory, not consoling, not warm.
The turning point isn’t emotional relief—it’s revelation without control. The wind arrives ungraspable, unseen, known only by its effects. John 3:8 is doing deep work here: God is not captured, handled, or summoned—only encountered by what He moves, opens, nourishes.
I’m struck by the Eucharistic imagery—the bread, the loaf, the manna—because it insists that nourishment can precede feeling. She eats before she understands. She receives before she feels assured. And the line “believing is more important than feeling” doesn’t dismiss emotion; it places it downstream from trust.
The final image—“closer than a wet sash, the bone and marrow, and remain in-between all of your sweet little heartbeats”—feels like the answer to the opening posture. What began curled inward ends upright, not because feelings changed, but because she was held the entire time.
To me, this poem speaks gently to anyone who has mistaken numbness for absence. It says: God may feel like nothing—and still be nearer than breath.
This really spoke to me in the depths. I love how she journeys from despondency to being truly seen, truly loved and truly held. The faith walk really is like this at times, sometimes on a daily basis even, but He always brings us back. He restores our soul.
Beautiful.