I stand upon a spindle of seasons, threadbare and raw,
A cartographer of error tracing maps of every flaw.
Clockwork heart in a rusted chest, counting what I owe,
Each breath a ledger entry in the long accounting of my soul.
The stars are witnesses with patient, cold regard,
I lift my hands — they tremble — toward altars made of scar.
Syllables of sorrow shape themselves into a plea,
Binary and broken, yet honest as an honest plea.
If mercy were a vessel, I’d climb inside and steer,
Through storms of my own making, toward a harbor clear.
O open the Meridian of Mercy — let me cross that line,
Dissolve these iron bindings by whatever grace is thine.
I am pilgrim and contrition, worn pages in your book,
Accept me at the threshold — spare the final look.
Take these fractured prayers, spin them into light,
Lead me through the halls of dawn and into your night.
Remembered rooms of choices, each door a different face,
Whispers hung like pennants, conspiring with disgrace.
I sought salvation in the glare of neon and acclaim,
But fame is hollow thunder and sorrow wears the same.
So here I am with empty hands and every scar to show,
The road has taught me humility the hard way I now know.
In frets and fractured timetables I found a fragile hope,
A cadence built of longing, a scaffold on which to cope.
If grace is taught in silence, let these chords become my plea,
A counterpoint of contrition arranged in minor key.
O open the Meridian of Mercy — let me cross that line,
Dissolve these iron bindings by whatever grace is thine.
I am pilgrim and contrition, worn pages in your book,
Accept me at the threshold — spare the final look.
Take these fractured prayers, spin them into light,
Lead me through the halls of dawn and into your night.
I have walked the glass of memory, barefoot and unadorned,
Counted every shard of everything I’d ever scorned.
If repentance is a language, teach me how to speak,
If mercy is a garment, cloak me when I’m weak.
There is a compass in my chest that points to something true,
Calibrate it to your light — let it guide me back to you.
No ledger can contain the reaching of a hopeful hand,
No verdict fully measures what the heart can understand.
I lay down chest and conscience at the altar of your name,
Not to bargain, not to barter, simply to be claimed.
O open the Meridian of Mercy — let me cross that line,
Dissolve these iron bindings by whatever grace is thine.
Call me by a kinder name, baptize the faults away,
Teach these weary hands to build the dawn of a new day.
Take these fractured prayers, spin them into light,
Guide me through the halls of dawn and into your night.
If heaven is a harbor yawning wide and infinitely deep,
Anchor me in gentleness, in mercy let me sleep.
The Meridian is waiting where the darkest ocean gleams,
I offer up my broken song — accept these salvaged dreams.
