Untitled: Ecclesiastes/Despair/Hope/Hevel

Written by: Paola Mendez

It crawls, 

It grovels—

My soul, it gurgles and sobs. 

It breaks and it bleeds—

My soul, it screams and it chokes.

Lying back, pinned under the gaze of eternity—

It remains tainted, poisoned. 

Black ichor, 

Thick and putrid, 

Slugging, chugging 

Through the veins.

I cannot see or speak or reach.

My bones are weak.

And my eyes?

They are heavy with sleep;

Exhaustion so deep I can barely breathe.

What is it? 

What is it that I so desperately seek? 

Reaching, grasping, 

My palms open and fingers closing…

Hevel—

The vapor in the wind. 

I grasp at nothing

And all poisons me.

Vanity of vanities,

All is vanity.

He whispers to me—as He always does— through the rustling of leaves in the trees.

I do not listen. I never listen. I wish I would listen. 

Oh, to trust You at Your faithful word… But, my unbelief! 

Immense, like a great tangling of vines that climb, and twist, and choke— merciless—the belief I hold so dear. 

Here I stand. Alas.