On days life pummels this soul with perils,  
faith folds into a miscarriage. I mean, living
becomes harder than steel.

I've drunk from the udder of suffering and hate
how it contorts my comfort.

Many times have I named it an unwanted guest,
brandished the blade of my trust in the almighty
towards it, hoping it'll become

a bird that flies off at the touch of pebbles. Still,
this encounter fractures the legs of my faith into
wobbly limbs of doubt.

Last night, I slit open my heart with a scalpel of
prayer, to let God see how despair sprawls
comfortably in the middle. 

He felt pity for this soul and promised to still my
raging storms. God's hands— mercy outstretched—
furnished my life with reckless love, which brought in grace.

At the entrance of grace, my door flipped open for success,
which came in and swiftly dismantled every brick of hardship
in this body. 

Slowly, my life shapeshifts into a cloud of rose water– oozing
hopeful fragrance that masks the foul smell of doubts. 

Unable to withstand the arrogance of my ambitions propelled
by God's grace, my miseries morph into mists that fizzle at the
first sight of sunlight.