Driftwood

The fog is heavy and blinding.

The accusing voice is loud and convincing.

The waves crash against my ramshackle frame.

The wind tosses my beleaguered self to and fro.

I’m driftwood, water logged yet still afloat.

I need the Sun to burn away the fog.

I long to hear the Good Shepherd’s Voice.

I listen for the “Peace, be still!” over the chaotic waters.

I need an anchor for the soul.

I cry out for a solid but forgiving Rock to crash upon,

and a firm foundation upon which to rebuild.

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