Somehow, I’d worked my way
deep into the narrow cleft.
Pondering out into the darkness,
I mistook the empty for the profound,
obscurity for certainty.
But in the silence of this nothing,
I heard the respiring tones beyond.
Wandering out from the shadows,
I stretched open my palms to grasp
at conviction in sunlit spires.
By Jason Weaver, 2014