Depression, Meek

Soul set high on the shelf
Not to collect corrupted air particles
But to be set even higher
It awaits the hand, the very print of the finger
To pick it up, up, up

And all this from the weeks
And the ends of those to prepare
To then the days we yell, scream, sing
To worship a king who needs not us
But wants us for all we are, not all we have

But the wind in the lungs that inhales and exhales
Quickly, in, out, bigger, smaller, it dwindles away
We say the wind is knocked out of us
But should we not question not of how it disappeared
But how we let it fly away?

Like how we welcome the winter snow as
A mourning prologue to the stories of summer
Breathing in fresh air and fresh prayers
We seek not, we tell not, we sing not
So we live not, where then shall we go

Skip past the posts of depression
Let the highs be lows, thus the skies the highs
And thus the skies heavenly, or limitless
For we know a God that knows higher things

Then let us soar to those higher highs, and become
Those of light hearted wings
We will forever sing to and join to the crux of life