I might not make it to the Taj Mahal.
But I’m often at the Temple—my son’s bedside, where the angels dwell.
Jesus makes a heaven out of hell.
I have no time for morbidity. It only drags me down.
No place for frivolity. Too much anesthesia leads to overdose.
Trying so hard to keep it real.
Equilibrium is what I want to feel.
I might not get to the Eiffel Tower.
I might not make it to the Taj Mahal.
But I’m often at the Temple—my son’s bedside, where the angels dwell.
Jesus makes a heaven out of hell.
A little girl wants her daddy. Her words of longing grip the soul, swell in my throat.
So difficult to breathe without a trach. Such a relief when the lungs erupt.
Old memories, may you never fade, decay, corrupt.
New memories, may you begin to form.
Neuropathways and airways, open up! Make that journey home. Be transformed!
I might not get to the Eiffel Tower.
I might not make it to the Taj Mahal.
But I’m often at the Temple—my son’s bedside, where the angels dwell.
Jesus makes a heaven out of hell.
We ask others how they’re doing—but do we really want to know? Do they even know?
Pleasantries about the weather shroud restless silence, but not the inevitable.
Neuro-storm clouds keep on brewing. So much wind in my face.
Spirit, put the wind in my sails! Get me back to that quiet place.
I might not get to the Eiffel Tower.
I might not make it to the Taj Mahal.
But I’m often at the Temple—my son’s bedside, where the angels dwell.
Jesus makes a heaven out of hell.
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