Letters from Xhale the magazine Words that breathe. Stories that Linger,

In sand
I saw man plaguing through sand,
hysteric laughter spilling from cracked lips
as he pitied every step
he could not make alone.

Preparing words dressed in borrowed strength,
calling on the Lord Almighty,
yet ashamed to lift his eyes.

In sand I saw nothing but praise—
strange praise,
born from breaking.
And I was shameful to ask Him for help.

How does this corrupt motion seem so right?
Why does my failing feel like flight?
What chance does my soul find to rejoice
while my flesh resists the fall?

The sand swallowed pride first.
Then certainty.
Then fear.

And when I sank to my knees,
the ground no longer fought me.
It held me.

The laughter softened—
not madness,
but mercy.