Becoming

Inside this skin I wear each day
Is someone still being shaped from clay.
I hear two voices when I stand —
One reaching up, one close at hand.

One wants the narrow, steady way,
The other leans toward quick display.
One bows low and learns to wait,
One pounds hard against the gate.

I wonder which is truly me —
The restless tide, the quiet sea?
The spark that flares and fades too fast,
Or something meant to last?

Perhaps the war I feel within
Is not defeat, nor proof of sin.
Perhaps it is the sound of stone
Being carved into His own.

Some days I yield. Some days I fall.
Some days I feel no strength at all.
And still a whisper soft and clear
Reminds me why the fight is here.

What if this tension, sharp and tight,
Is not my darkness, but my light?
What if the ache to rise above
Is simply being trained in love?

Then maybe what I call a war
Is not what I thought it was before.
Not ruin, not a fractured fling —
But hands at work, a precious thing.