Wednesday, April 13, 2016



All that is buried,
'Cause no longer can carry.
Deeper into soul dig each spade of dirt,
Mistakenly believe can bury the hurt.

Reaching up from that grave,
Longings and desires crawl out of that cave.
What's been buried isn't dead,
Hibernating in thoughts deep in head.

Voice slowly returns,
Anger at self that is spurned.
Fury and rage crescendo,
Soul reluctantly opens window.

Evoking a frown,
Burdens laid down.
Lazarus of soul called from tomb,
Grave clothes wrapped tightly, a womb.

Can't believe how long persisted,
Debris of life resisted.
Out of darkness new life,
Peace replaces internal strife.

His voice calls forth,
That which was dead to live again.
Unburied each shovel of dirt,
Painful healing of places been hurt.

Joy evoked,
Where once it was choked,
Hope again,
Reconciliation with who I've been.

About the Author:  Brian Bucks lives on a small horse ranch in Western Nebraska and is a husband, father, electrical engineer, and poet.
Sunrise this morning at the ranch.... horses hiding in the foreground.

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