Words On A Sunday

Eyes open and close. 
Lean back, let what happens happen.

Words are sometimes like abortions.
Forced out before their time.

Screaming lips, hasty tongues.

Body tired. Uncomfortable.
Does it still belong to me?

Do secret vowels leak out
from weary lips? Am I touching

the right sort of optimism?

I want to drink the wine
of redemptive healing.

Letting it slip and slide
over the internal sickness.

When healed, when this is done,
I'll shout words of praise.
I'll proclaim eternal thankfulness
to God, who alone heals.