Black ink and sunbeams poetry

Granulated,

the shape of a soul in flux,

shaped and shaped again,

weightless as surrender, triumphant

in rebirth

my friend,

the color of your grief is

no different than the color of my own,

inflections treasure made manifest

between the turbulent narrows

of sorrow and rage

for, when at last,

the faithful exhaust their tolerance

and the dove settles upon the cross

adorning their standard,

those things which left us sundered,

which exist beyond their imagination,

shall be our salvation