HER WILL
|
Her force of will, hard won,
Alone tells the story
Of her tough life now gone.
Her vessel, which fled she
To a fate too long due,
A life patiently sought
Since fortune frowned (mind you,
Never helped along), ought
Still hold inside its frame—
In great internal wells
Once filled with love not tame,
And passion that cast spells
On whomever it met—
Some semblance of living,
But it's clear: when she set
Out toward her home, giving
Her tortured mortal form
Permission to find rest,
What was left in her warm
Servant's heart, which no test
Or blight could ever rend—
Which, once absent, defined
In sharp relief and penned
Its visage in our minds—
That resolute, iron will
(Or what mote she still claimed
Once she worked to instill
It into those she named,
Those she chose to receive
The best inheritance
She could by herself leave),
With her deliverance
Escaped, joining her soul
In its body anew,
Leaving only a hull
Withered by time. And few
Will know the volume filled
In that worldly chassis
By only what she willed
To stay, by that mass she
Summoned to fill the vows
She made in younger days
To see the life-spun rows
Calmed, her loved ones' pathways
Oped, and her elders gone
To their rewards above;
The few who know will spawn
The stories of her love
And bring glory to Him
Who breathed it into her,
Who with it to the brim
Filled her heart—and over—
And whose will even hers
Obeyed despite its cries,
And by whose great powers
Her will and spirit rise.
Note: anyone is welcome to use this poem, but I must be given credit along with the poem, and I must be contacted and alerted that it's being used.
Alone tells the story
Of her tough life now gone.
Her vessel, which fled she
To a fate too long due,
A life patiently sought
Since fortune frowned (mind you,
Never helped along), ought
Still hold inside its frame—
In great internal wells
Once filled with love not tame,
And passion that cast spells
On whomever it met—
Some semblance of living,
But it's clear: when she set
Out toward her home, giving
Her tortured mortal form
Permission to find rest,
What was left in her warm
Servant's heart, which no test
Or blight could ever rend—
Which, once absent, defined
In sharp relief and penned
Its visage in our minds—
That resolute, iron will
(Or what mote she still claimed
Once she worked to instill
It into those she named,
Those she chose to receive
The best inheritance
She could by herself leave),
With her deliverance
Escaped, joining her soul
In its body anew,
Leaving only a hull
Withered by time. And few
Will know the volume filled
In that worldly chassis
By only what she willed
To stay, by that mass she
Summoned to fill the vows
She made in younger days
To see the life-spun rows
Calmed, her loved ones' pathways
Oped, and her elders gone
To their rewards above;
The few who know will spawn
The stories of her love
And bring glory to Him
Who breathed it into her,
Who with it to the brim
Filled her heart—and over—
And whose will even hers
Obeyed despite its cries,
And by whose great powers
Her will and spirit rise.
Note: anyone is welcome to use this poem, but I must be given credit along with the poem, and I must be contacted and alerted that it's being used.