You can find more of MM's poetry at @earthtomm
Poem an infinite promise
Promise me that You will always be enough
that You will be forever pouring over,
old rooms of Your heart to discover,
newness of life in every drawer,
in a unlocked chestnut wardrobe,
another haunt set free,
another secret door
to another uncharted world.
Promise me that I won’t get bored.
That we won’t run low on things to discuss.
That we will trace Your goodness through the galaxies,
and the lines won’t end,
that they will circle in on each other,
loop and cross over until everything
is covered in You.
Promise me there is enough of You
for me and him and
the both of us,
the all of us.
But promise we will learn to love
the silence too,
let it hush over us,
quiet us with the conversation of
a known love.
And promise that there will always be more,
more more more
more in storage to pull out and out and out
in your store houses and hidden back doors,
more flowers growing, more to make,
more to taste.
I can’t get enough of You.
And I’m so hungry, always so very
starved for more of something good.
Hunger pains consume me for
something right, something that fits,
that make so much glorious sense.
I’m wildly afraid that You aren’t infinite.
I have such vivid nightmares that
Your well runs dry, like mine
and his and hers
and everyone’s I’ve ever known.
So much so I just might run.
Promise me I’m wrong?
That Your well is overflowing, gushing forth.
Take my hand, pinky in Yours,
and looking me into my waning eyes
and promise.
Then show me.
Take my hand and show me your storehouses,
and drip honey on my fingers,
oil on my head,
wring your rags dry, let them shower me
let me soak in the promise,
raining down,
turn it in my hands.
And when I get scared,
—and blinded and faithless—
will you take your thumbs, open up my eyes,
please, and show me again.
You can find more of MM's poetry at @earthtomm
Poem an infinite promise
Promise me that You will always be enough
that You will be forever pouring over,
old rooms of Your heart to discover,
newness of life in every drawer,
in a unlocked chestnut wardrobe,
another haunt set free,
another secret door
to another uncharted world.
Promise me that I won’t get bored.
That we won’t run low on things to discuss.
That we will trace Your goodness through the galaxies,
and the lines won’t end,
that they will circle in on each other,
loop and cross over until everything
is covered in You.
Promise me there is enough of You
for me and him and
the both of us,
the all of us.
But promise we will learn to love
the silence too,
let it hush over us,
quiet us with the conversation of
a known love.
And promise that there will always be more,
more more more
more in storage to pull out and out and out
in your store houses and hidden back doors,
more flowers growing, more to make,
more to taste.
I can’t get enough of You.
And I’m so hungry, always so very
starved for more of something good.
Hunger pains consume me for
something right, something that fits,
that make so much glorious sense.
I’m wildly afraid that You aren’t infinite.
I have such vivid nightmares that
Your well runs dry, like mine
and his and hers
and everyone’s I’ve ever known.
So much so I just might run.
Promise me I’m wrong?
That Your well is overflowing, gushing forth.
Take my hand, pinky in Yours,
and looking me into my waning eyes
and promise.
Then show me.
Take my hand and show me your storehouses,
and drip honey on my fingers,
oil on my head,
wring your rags dry, let them shower me
let me soak in the promise,
raining down,
turn it in my hands.
And when I get scared,
—and blinded and faithless—
will you take your thumbs, open up my eyes,
please, and show me again.