In these past month of Sundays
The voice in me shouts louder than it ever has 
It wants release
And searches the far reaches of my mind 
Corners so dark and dank 
Tunnels with the glare of shadows I've created from doubt
Absent of the light 
It misses 
Passages not walked...covered in new growth 
No footsteps to pass 
No Tracks
No Search Parties
Trapped like little black child miners in Sierra Leone 
Dying, succumbing to demise with a fistful of dirty diamonds
Floating in the mouth of a great killer whale
Who moves but all inside stays still
Settled piles of orange and yellow leaves
In a vacant parking lot, somewhere on an desolate boulevard
Quivering before the solstice
In a forest of flying creatures 
Everlasting yarns...Toss and turn restless thoughts 
Sleepless nights that always last so much longer than eight hours
Each second moves slower than the last
Counting...an arduous task
Nothing seems important
Nightmares become a bore
I've become so jaded I dream no more
The judges, the critics...those who can't do
Always seem to have that crashing sledge hammer 
Smashing into the teeth of my dreams 
Until the mouth of hope can no longer digest my aspirations
In these past month of Sundays 
I've become accepting
Passive
Tamed and broken
I will not give in; 
I will search for my treasure chest of fortitude and courage 
I hid so deep in that tunnel of my soul 
I will find the light that was swallowed up by the puke of my skeptics
I will become strong again 
God is good.