The Cave and the Struggling Lamb

Soaring levities collapse inwardly, wrenching cavernous depths from billowing fields

The self once craved for is thickly confined within captivating attachments, rendering all things vacuous, yielding not even themselves

Sliding back into tunnels unending, false courage breeds confusion and veiled fear

Marooned again within the cave

Darkness cascading across stones hewn across the generations of man

Voices echo, ever flitting, from sources undefined:

“What are battles won if there are no spoils?”

“What fruitless tree goes purposefully attended?

“The interminable feeding of war and tending of soil serve only to deplete — to fuel the vacuousness that starves the soul.”

Sentiments as these descend harshly upon the prodigal spirit, so guarded and eager to flee

And yet they land tenderly upon the heart once stark and vulnerable — laid to rest and ceded

For in this cave no towering warrior nor hearty tree dwells — only lambs lost to insolence and the senselessness of sin

And when the lamb relaxes its limbs and falls into tender embrace, shadows once cast are outlasted by eternal sun

Emerging from the cave, not as a victorious and meritorious spirit, but as a thread-worn prodigal carried unto the warmth of home