Strings.

Frail indeed are the strings of life,

Oblivious to their breaking, you hold on.

You sense their vibrations in the silences of your soul,

Yet you see not The Hand that strokes them.

You fear death from afar,

You see only it’s suffering and it’s strife.

But is it not in life that lies the greater pain?

And what is death, but life, refined?

Is it not that you are imprisoned by the flowing of your blood,

And caged by the drawing of your own breaths?

That you are the victim of your own longing,

and the pleasure that fills your breast is the very one that rends it.

Is it not by affliction that you know ease,

and by hunger that you know fulfillment?

What you consider to be death,

Is it not that by which you know life?

To live is to be free.

It is to have the Name of the Beloved upon your lips.

To long for Him in the silence that follows each heartbeat,

And live in that silence, forever.