If this question had been asked of Me years ago-- What would it be like, Writing prayer? My answer would have been A naïve vision. Polished mahogany desk, Quality pens and ivory linen paper, Light whispers of angelic voices Providing gentle inspiration. I did not know then, The heaviness of words, In dark and lonely hours, When prayers erupt deep in my soul. The urgent need to Scratch them quickly, on the nearest Scrap of paper with a broken pen. Now, when writing prayer is My breath and my joy, I know, I do not create prayer, Prayer creates me.