With the color palette of my imagination
I expressively begin to paint
Four walls
Four cold walls.
There are no lights on, so everything is dark.
No light is present but that which creeps through
One solitary window in the corner.
Enough light is present to make out the vague forms
Of a few objects in the room.
Four walls.
Four cold walls.
Four cold, empty walls.
Four cold, empty, looming walls.
They remind me how lonely the room is.
They remind me how lonely the figure in the middle is.
He is curled up on the floor,
Gripped by fear,
Thrashed by his own selfishness,
Sucked of life by depression.
He is merely a skeleton of what he used to be.
The stretched skin draped across his ribs
Reveal how thin he has been pulled
By the demands of an image;
An unrealistic image he daily projects upon himself.
This scraggly silhouette raises his shamed head.
He casts his weary gaze to
The corner of the darkened room:
The corner with the only shed of light.
He makes out a small box
Occupying the only illuminated piece of the floor.
During the next few hours,
He slowly makes his way across the floor
To reach the box.
Upon his arrival, he stares at its golden luster.
Until now, he knew nothing of its incredible worth.
This, this golden box could afford him anything.
Everything.
Healing.
Freedom.
Anything he ever wanted to buy.
This box,
His faithful companion in this miserable room
Was the best thing that ever happened to him.
He had all he needed....
I expressively begin to paint
Four walls
Four cold walls.
There are no lights on, so everything is dark.
No light is present but that which creeps through
One solitary window in the corner.
Enough light is present to make out the vague forms
Of a few objects in the room.
Four walls.
Four cold walls.
Four cold, empty walls.
Four cold, empty, looming walls.
They remind me how lonely the room is.
They remind me how lonely the figure in the middle is.
He is curled up on the floor,
Gripped by fear,
Thrashed by his own selfishness,
Sucked of life by depression.
He is merely a skeleton of what he used to be.
The stretched skin draped across his ribs
Reveal how thin he has been pulled
By the demands of an image;
An unrealistic image he daily projects upon himself.
This scraggly silhouette raises his shamed head.
He casts his weary gaze to
The corner of the darkened room:
The corner with the only shed of light.
He makes out a small box
Occupying the only illuminated piece of the floor.
During the next few hours,
He slowly makes his way across the floor
To reach the box.
Upon his arrival, he stares at its golden luster.
Until now, he knew nothing of its incredible worth.
This, this golden box could afford him anything.
Everything.
Healing.
Freedom.
Anything he ever wanted to buy.
This box,
His faithful companion in this miserable room
Was the best thing that ever happened to him.
He had all he needed....
Now if only he could find a way out
So he could experience its worth...
Jesus, even when the lights are turned off,
You are just as shiny.
Even though nothing in the room reflects you,
You are just as brilliant.
Even when it's cold in this room,
You are just as valuable.
No shred of heat could compare
To your infinite worth.
Even when the walls are caving in,
Even though I am terrified,
Even in the midst of my brokenness,
You are just as safe.
"Why are you cast down, O my soul, and why are you in turmoil within me? Hope in God; for I shall again praise him, my salvation and my God." Psalm 43:5
