To Swim With Scar Burnt Fingertips

With burnt and blistered fingers i passed the torch to you like an Olympian

Like you were the last and fastest runners of all

This poison dipped flaming stick of a torch was a legacy that, through you, would become a legend

Years passed since the blisters on my fingers have dried and you keep running

While the poison strips the sparkle from you eyes you run

I never saw someone run so fast while removing and reapplying neon toenail polish

Stamping painful request for forgiveness into occasional prayer slots is no way to live, I know

I've run torches through living rooms, I've burned houses and homes in their wake

I've cut life lines with blistered fingers and stamped hundreds of tattered infrequent envelopes filled with forgiveness prayers

But the torch has been passed and looking around, everyone has scar burnt fingertips

There aren't a whole lot of options are there, but there is always hope

So if i can my friend, i want to pass on a few more things to you

First is a prayer book cut into little strips of gauze that you can bandage your blistered fingers with every morning and evening

I'll show you how to call 95 lifelines a day even if you still have to hang up every once in a while

I'll ink spirals into you elbows and kneecaps, so when you fall and skin them you wont forget where your going, and you'll never get discouraged by how long it's taking

I'll pray detachment into heart shaped slippers that are terrible for running

But instead are more suited for the sandy shores of devotions where we walk the thin line

Where the Ocean of God's Law meets the desert we trudge through to get there

I don't care how long or hard you trudge in those sands, the hardest step you will ever take is when you lead to leave that shore behind and swim

For that my friend I can't prepare you, I've never swam there

But I've found that I can stitch obligatory gifts into a life raft just big enough to keep my head above water

Wait! wait, wait...

I've gotten ahead of myself, this all begins with something you must do alone

Only you can find the pain in your life th cry the poison from your eyes, and then, alone, with new vision, you have to choose

To stop running, to let your blistered fingers dry, and put out that torch, once and for all

When you do I want you to call me, I'll come over with these things to pass on

I'll climb to my knees, take your feet in my hands, and wash away the dust from all that running

So call me when you cry, the choice is yours, and until them, so is this poem