Grace

A poem I wrote long ago.

A man travels down an empty road,
Less traveled or not, he does not know.
He seeks to find what he once lost,
Or never owned, time ever a foe.

He walks in silence, mist swirling,
Looking back and forth for a shine.
He stops to check, nothing, again,
He moves on, missing the sign.

Deep in thought, he ponders all
Mistakes that brought him here.
He knows where he went wrong,
But not how to make it clear.

He loved, once, vivid and fierce,
Passion embraced mind and soul.
Emotion gone, feelings sparse,
All he feels is a vacant hole.

He checks again to reclaim his prize,
Hoping his memory would stir.
He grasps, clutches the earth,
“Maybe Grace, could it be her?”

His mind stops, for in his hand
Is the item he thought vanished.
A tiny pendant, rusted with age,
In an instant, transported, banished.

Colors bright
Blinding light
Love flowing
Faith glowing
Wonder growing
Memories showing
Soul flaming
Doubt blaming
Grace emerging
Silence.

Silence.

Silence.

Silence.

The man opens his eyes, rising
From the cold ground and mist.
Warmth moves through his body,
The pendant still in his fist.

Grace had returned, he could feel
Her, the love he had lost long ago.
His soul leaps with joy as she comes,
As an arrow slung from a bow.

The man walks again, smile large,
As the mist begins to rise.
Grace is back, a wonderful gift,
As the sun destroys the lies.