If writing is holy ground,
come walk with me
through the fodder of your imagination.
Come bear with me
through the pins and needles
that dig in to your sleeping confidence.
Come smile at me
even if your resolve is dissolving into pieces,
even while the joy in your eyes melts
and slides down your face,
slipping like chocolate
on a summer's day.
Come join me
when it feels like your insides are churning,
like a game of musical chairs for your organs,
jostling and shoving to get into place.
Even with your heart at your feet
and your guts in your hands,
come to me then.
If what we are doing is holy,
even through your human
come worship at my feet.