https://www.pexels.com/photo/woman-in-wearing-white-robe-praying-6560255
It often comes softest,
after and during each prayer—
When my hands are still,
When my thoughts are clear,
in the quiet serenity;
when silence sits heavy in the room.
A pull beneath the skin,
subtle but delibrate drag,
a warning that wears no name.
Oftentimes it's a memory,
other times just a mere feeling—
I know that feeling;
it's a scent of a familiar intuition,
a shadow of what once was,
and would soon be.
It doesn't argue,
It doesn't shout,
It's often firm and kind.
Its pull is strong,
It lingers persuasively.
It moves like a mother's hand,
Its unyielding and resolute,
solid on my back, as its rocks me, saying:
"Be wise my child, don't go there."
I have ignored it,
many times—
Until regrets taught me how right it was.
But the few times I listened,
peace flourished like a gentle rain,
enveloping me like
a child cuddling a teddy bear,
like a cool breeze blowing away my worries.
It never comes with proof,
only with presence.
Led not by reason,
but by emotions and feelings;
by the ache in my heart,
by the tears in my eyes,
by the pain in my chest,
by the anxieties I recognize
that whisper, you've been here before.
Oh! that intuition,
so right and true it seemed.
And after the dust settles,
The voice was not fear—
It was wisdom disguised in quiet.
This is my response to the June week 3 challenge of the @blockchainpoet community.
THANKS A LOT FOR READING ME.