wreckage restored

i am no writer.

my words are lost in the untrodden land and uncharted sea,
my ink is dried from the fear of dipping into mystery and from the heat of the curious flame.
my mouth is parched from the dry barren ground, from the sandy wind of the wasteland.
my feet pace the floor furnished with sharp needles and electrifying currents.

i am no beauty.

my body shivers from the cold winter draft blowing from the old ruined neighbourhood,
my eyes are swollen from sleepless nights and silent weeping.
my laughter has broken like the shattered glass scattered on the cold marble floor,
like a shredded song tossed to the wind and carried into the unexplored darkness.

i am no writer. 

i am no beauty.

but He takes these fractured wreckage and holds it in His hands.
there is no beauty in the ashes, there is no lure, no charm.
i am nothing yet He chooses me.

He takes these unspoken words, the long-gone ink and showers them in the stream of love,
He kisses these wounded feet and heals the arid lips.
He wraps the trembling bones and gives beauty to the hideous eyes.
and there is laughter in His presence, there is joy, and happiness.

i am no writer. i am no beauty.

but He is all I need.