we spend our life trying to become, but the beauty is in the unbecoming

October 22, 2017

A Call

I can’t tell if that voice that cries,
“Wrong!”
is mine, or God’s, or their’s.
But it’s loud reverberation calls to me.

I can’t tell if that whisper that persuades,
“No more!”
is true, or convoluted, or false.
But it’s quiet strength calls to me.

I can’t tell if that concern in my core that nags,
“Speak up!”
is brave, or expected, or terrified.
But it’s steady persistence calls to me.

I can’t tell if the sleepless night that begs
“Confront it!”
is clear, or anxious, or exhausted.
But it’s dissatisfied ache calls to me.

I can’t tell if I want the ethical choice to be 
easy or hard,
confusing or clear,
loud or soft,
gentle or harsh.
I can’t tell, but I know that it calls to me.
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