I will awaken the dawn.

Again. It’s happened again. I return to consciousness and there is no light.
I can’t see my hand in front of my face.
Or the twisted remains of my certainty littering the floor.

And I stumble outside and look up. Only blackness.

And so, again, I begin the tortuous climb.
Up the mountains of theology.
Through the forest of poetry.
Stumbling my way through the ineffable emptiness.
Wondering all the while if I should just go home.

Then I see it. At last. For what seems like the millionth time.
That castle on a cloud.

Awake, O harp and lyre!
I will awaken the dawn!

I start by knocking, but I know that it’s useless.
The dawn is a heavy sleeper.
And so I break her windows with rocks picked up from the mountains.
I clear away the debris with branches from those trees.

I find myself inside. And I hear her breathing.

Grabbing her by the shoulders I drag her out of bed.
And slowly she comes awake.

I will sing and make melody!
Awake, my glory!
Awake, O harp and lyre!
I will awaken the dawn!

And at the first touch of her waking light
the world regains its proper definitions.
The boundaries and footpaths reappear.
And beauty once more appears in the sky.

My heart is steadfast.