Light Enters When We Are Wounded

My words are weeping twilight and sunset
As I pick at fragments of my general ruin.
Days and nights speed by so fast it’s surreal.
I can’t seem to get a firm hold on Time.
I think, that the glittering veil of Mammon,
Hides the bleakest of truths from our eyes,
And only when we are burnt by
The black sun of despair, can we be reborn.

My heroes are the biblical prophets:
Who knew the dryness of bones in the desert;
Who knew that holiness had to be earned:
From bitter trials by fire, locusts and flood.

What I’ve learnt from them is crystal clear:
What is torn or broken lets in the light.