Inspired by a sketch of The Prodigal’s Return by Sir Edward John Poynter.
Into your arms,
confessing with a heaving heart
and cleaving to your familiar robes
to stanch the wounds I accrued
by pursuing a blind ambition I’d called sight.
How humbling to know it is you who are right
and I am in need of nourishment.
who love the unloveable
and call me
as if such a thing
brings you no shame.
In a world so quick to note faults,
with my breaking body
and guide my seeking soul.
You, who warn and warm me,
and light my wintered life,
when unteachable is I all hear,
how I never dreamed
for one as beautiful as you
to gaze upon my wantonness
and weave the words that are your hand on my heart.