marooned

I have heard that sun all the time makes a desert, but God, the sand is burning my hands.



Loneliness and desperation singe my fingers. Why is it so still here? Here, where the air shimmers and dances like my feet used to. 

    
Why is it so still here? 

    
The only cloud even somewhat close is the sadness that cloaks me. But it does not shield me from the burning. I dig down, down, down, trying to escape into depths I have only heard of. 

    
I have marooned myself, waiting, reaching for that still, small voice I once knew. Marooned in a landscape of endurance and constant wondering. How I wish for just one breath to come and stir, please, come and stir so that I might look beyond. The trail behind me is bloody, footprints and the dragging of my sword in the sand. It’s too heavy to lift—to even sheathe—so I cling to it. For who am I without my sword?

    
Under the smoking sky, dreams of water permeate me. I wish for grass and murmuring trees to tell me I’m almost home. With a dry tongue, I choke and tell myself my Captain is waiting for me. He has gone ahead to prepare the spring and the wine. He knows I can make it. He knows I can make it. 

    
He knows I can make it.

    
So I carry on, despite the heavy aching. But I keep falling, tripping from exhaustion and tears as the days turn into what feels like ages of the earth. Sand starts to drain into me; nothing induces panic more than an emptying hourglass. 

    
I cannot move. Eyes giving out, lamps burning low, I steal one last look ahead. For a moment, I think I am dreaming again…

    
The mountains. His mountains. I can hear the streams of joy as I lift my head. Luscious green cascades to meet my singed and weary hands. Thunder rolls from his throne like an avalanche, and I am lifted into the air on wings, huge and golden. 

    
I leave clouds and sand and desperation below. I leave fear and anger and sadness.

    
And then there he is: my Captain, standing before me, radiant in his splendor. His eyes are blazing sapphires, and their look of love weakens my knees. But he takes me up, and I am no longer choking with dust. My muscles are renewed, and my sword is sharpened. My armor reflects his shining countenance. I laugh, and my lungs might explode from the glory. 

    
For I am Beloved, hear me roar.