Stories written in lines
horizontally, diagonally,
some thick, some thin,
scattered and organized.
Stories I started.
Gruesome and ugly,
sad and distorted,
somber and dreary.
Words carefully engraved,
composed by such pain.
Their purpose unclear
’till the author’s replacing.
Gathering up pages,
recovering the pen,
reconstructing scripts,
yet not erasing history.
My stories, You refine.
Stories written in lines,
scattered, yet organized,
on surfaces of me.
Stories You finish,
bringing them to ends
promising, beautiful,
filled by Your love.
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