What Waits at the Door
I light a single candle here
where evening presses thin,
and speak into the quiet dark
the way I've always been.
I know the cold that finds the cracks,
the voice that mimics mine,
the weight that settles on the chest
of some unnamed design.
I've felt you wear the shape of doubt,
the shape of shame, of fear —
a borrowed face, a stolen tongue,
too practiced to be clear.
So I will not address the dark
as if it owned the room.
I built this house on other ground,
long before you loomed.
There is a Name I carry now
like fire beneath the skin,
not mine to wield, but mine to speak
each time you slip within.
So hear it plain, and hear it once,
no riddle left to trace —
be gone, unclean, in Jesus Christ's name:
you have no claim, no place.
~ Pranam ~ OM ~ aMEn ~
7/14/26, 12:43 p.m.
Add comment
Comments