I can’t quite remember when it first began,
but I’ve returned to the practice again and again.
I write out my prayers in ink on a page,
but I simply write over the previous days.

Words cover words, and colors collide.
But God sees and He knows all the meaning inside.
I can never go back to recover what’s written,
can’t gather the words or take back what I’ve given.
The Trustworthy One reads sense in this riot
of thinking and inking, of words in the quiet.

Even when all of my ink pots are empty,
and despair has arisen in darkness to tempt me,
my God will still hear me and read what I’ve penned
though no marks are made with the pen in my hand.