The Shadow

In times of transition, as we walk a tightrope of hopelessness, the shadow comes to claim us.

The shadow descends, reminding us that there is no way out of the endless darkness.

The shadow screams at the top of its lungs, “there is no hope my child.

Your destiny is to wander in dark places with quenchless thirst for a new beginning.”

The shadow surreptitiously insinuates itself into every aspect of our perception.

The shadow ensures that when trials come they descend like an avalanche,

And we feel like the darkness is infinite and that all things begin and end in suffering.

But all shadows need light to accent their darkness.

There can be no shadow without light.

And while a shadow is delimited by shape and form, light is endless and eternal.

There can be no shadow without light, and the light from which the shadow garners strength is endless and eternal.

I do not express this through emotion or inspiration, as my emotions are buried beneath the debris of depression’s languid odor.

All I sense and smell, all I feel or see is darkness enveloping me in the deception of the shadow.

But there is a knowledge of light that cannot be vanquished.

And it is with this knowledge that I declare that all shadows must eventually succumb to the light which begets them.

And this light is wondrous and glorious.

This light is more than enough to lift me to the sky and beyond.

And so I say, even in the grips of hopelessness, that light is the truth of all things and this light has claimed me.

Oh Death Where Is Thy Sting?

By: Woodrow Odom Lucas

Born into tragic reckoning,

We understand that all the bliss we have is but a moment in Creation,

Elation and tragedy come to nothing beneath the last breath our body takes,

And death opens wide to swallow us into that great mystery.

Born into tragic reckoning,

We try and create a memory that lives beyond our present breath,

But that memory is hollow compared to the touch of loved ones,

We grow and live knowing that someday we will lose our parents and friends to that dark dominion,

And yet does death still sting as before?

Born into tragic reckoning,

A man lived in sorrow, hoping and reaching for a better tomorrow,

Born into poverty and oppression,

A man refused to accept the limitations of his age and grew to become like no manner of man that has ever existed.

Born into tragic reckoning, a man grabbed the hand of God and demanded life,

And when it was his time to die he embraced the abyss,

Three days later he rose from death’s clutches and said, “I am that I am.”

The great dream of tomorrow beyond the sting of loss is real and it is rather the sensation that things end which is mistaken.

For there was and is a man, who will ensure that tragedies are transformed into triumphant reconciliation.

For there was and is a man, who guarantees that even in the height of despair there really is no end and all mysteries give way to beginnings of blessing.

Oh Death, because of a man who was, who is, and who will be where is your sting?

Or sorrow where is your victory?

For death can rule no soul.

So into the great beyond, go with courage dear sister, go with courage.