It seems …
I am always talking to You,
That I am always with You,
And have no doubt
You are with me.
Listening and silent.

I am an endless monologue.
You, hovering Spirit,
Wordlessly eloquent abide.
You are Presence and Truth,
Listening and silent,
Thunderously silent,
Save for the stirring of my heart,
And the sometime rush of thought,
Coming, as it were,
From the bowels of my being
With frightening conviction,
And challenging my reticence
To speak aloud
The thoughts of solitude.

Reluctant always  to go about,
And leave the cloister of my heart,
Where in Your chambers I find,
And hold dear,
Private audience with the King,

The world without is a noisy charade.
It woos the pride of me take center stage.
Where suddenly I realize
I have been talking much too much
To my regret.
I, naggingly, suspect
I have diminished
That which was my treasure
And ceased to learn.
Cacophony of me,
I cease to learn and simply rearrange
That with which I am familiar.

Where do prophets, poets and a would-be recluse,
Find a voice if not in You,
Rejecting even audience
To find You in my silence, Your silence.

Copyright Joann Nelander 2011

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