A blank page

wanting black letters to create something …

The ramblings of a troubled heart.

The hurt of a sensitive soul.

Articulated in metaphor and shaky


The mysteries of the universe

The mysteries of fickle-hearted beings.

Mystery of being itself.

What is hidden within the heart comes out in action–

can’t hide it, no matter how practiced your stare–

aloofness, seeming indifference.

Can a heart ever heal? Be made whole no matter how much is poured out upon a blank white page?

Traveled heart seeking solace in a different country. The rolling green hills. Villas among mountains. Villages by the sea. Communities where no one knows you. Secrets shared with a community only temporarily amongst. Everyone has secrets.

Can’t keep them hidden forever. Secrets fester and torment.

Leaving an emptiness, a gaping whole.


Confession–a beauty, a good. Freeing the one imprisoned within secrets, tormenting. Forgiveness healing.

But how will one fill the gaping hole? No person can fully heal another. Yet, another can help lead one to the Good. Toward God. A Beatrice. Not saving. But praying and being companion toward God. The One of grace, mercy, life, joy, peace.

Mercy envelope the despairing despondent souls. Carry us on wings of grace. Your tender mercy leading us on.

Help us be steadfast. Only you are steadfast.

Translate these ramblings into prayer. These black letters on white.


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