War Is Over, If You Want It

Good morning God.

The war is over,

my eyes are bleary,

blinded by the sun,

sinking into his soft skin.

The sun is in my soul,

cursed by his charms.

I am rich and warm,

smiling,

wild and wicked,

as I seek him,

beneath the sheets.

This feels foreign, God,

and I feel foreign,

often,

but this,

THIS,

is so different.

You sent him to me,

not with wings,

or blinding light,

but just as he was,

just as I wanted.

The conflict has concluded.

In my body,

there are knots,

I am confused,

and caged,

finally free.

I think I might be happy.

I fell asleep last night,

my pillows became clouds,

and I met him in my dreams,

God,

there he was,

in my dreams.

All night,

I found new ways to be sane,

cursed to be less chaotic,

finally cursed with something I can use,

soothed by him,

and the way he sends the sun to my soul,

when he is the first thing I see,

in the morning.