“almost as if“

(almost as if)

Almost as if the room had learned my name,
It leans its ear toward every breath I take.
The air grows thick, not close—deliberate,
As though it waits to see what I become.
I stand within the shape my hands devised,
Each stone a sentence sworn against the dark,
Each seam sealed tight with certainty and fear.

Come closer. Do not flinch at narrowing walls.
This is not loss of space, but gaining form.
I rose where chaos bruised thy tender mind,
Where voices clashed and mercy blurred the law.
I taught thee how to stand when none remained.
I did not shout. I whispered sense and strength.

Almost as if the weight were wisdom’s proof,
I take the surcoat from its waiting hook
And draw it round my shoulders like a vow.
How old it smells—of iron faith and smoke,
Of wars remembered holy after time.
It presses hard along my ribs and spine.
What presses hardest must be built to last.

I clothed thee thus when no one named thy worth.
No father laid his hand upon thy head
To say: This is the measure of a man.
So I became that measure. I became
The rule that does not leave. The line that holds.
Wrap close. The cloth remembers chosen men.

There is no mirror here. I spared thee that.
Mirrors divide the soul in smaller selves.
Conviction needs no witness but itself.
Yet still thy face grows firm, though thou canst not see—
The eyes grow keen with judging what must fall,
The mouth forgets the softness of reply.

Almost as if a pulse defies command,
A flicker glows behind thy guarded ribs.
A heart—how troublesome these embers are.
They warm at mercy, flare at human grief.
Press cloth against it. Fire must learn its place.
I let it glow at times, for contrast sharpens faith.

I pace the floor and speak to stillness now,
For silence has a habit of replying.
I tell myself I built for order’s sake,
That love untamed dissolves the bones of men,
That women speaking truths unguarded wound,
That strangers carry fear beneath their skin.

Almost as if I wondered how they think—
The thought arrives, unwelcome but sincere.
A woman’s eyes hold something like the sea.
A stranger’s grief hangs heavy in the air.
The moment stirs, then trembles on the edge.

I seal it quick with language shaped as law:
That difference corrodes what must endure,
That mercy breeds a weakness in the wall,
That some must rule so others may be ruled.
The thought retreats. The stone approves my calm.

Thou art not cruel. Thou art meticulous.
I taught thee so. I praised thee for restraint.
Hate is too loud, too clumsy for control.
Better the quiet confidence of right.
Better the peace of being certain still.

Almost as if the room grows warm with breath,
The air thickens as exits fade from thought.
Each stone denies another human face.
Each stone insists: You stand because you must.

I hear of One who knelt instead of ruled,
Who touched the untouchable without disgust,
Who trusted women’s witness over fear,
Who tore down walls and named it Kingdom come.

The ember flares.
It hurts.

Almost as if this mercy were a threat,
I press it down with practiced certainty.
Peace costs too much. Control is cheaper still.
The wall grows taller as the doubt grows thin.

The surcoat tears along its ancient seam.
The cloth gives way where fire brushed too close.
I call it proof of war well fought and just—
For armor breaks when righteousness stands firm.
I do not ask whose blood has fed the dust.

I am no longer angry. I am sure.
And certainty requires no open door.
The candle fades. I did not need its light.
Light asks for witness. Stone requires none.

I remain. I always will. Rest now in me.
I am the father that thou lackedst long.
I am the shelter from unbearable choice.
I am the voice that spares thee asking why.

Almost as if thou wert not only him,
But standing here where breath and stone converge,
Attend this thought that presses through the page:

Where art thou building walls and naming them
Protection?
Where hast thou worn the weight of older creeds
And called it truth because it bruised thy bones?
Where hast thou silenced flickers in thy chest
Because they asked thee see another face?

The heart still beats—faint, obstinate, alive—
Not slain by God, but quieted by will.
The wall remains. The surcoat hangs in rags.
The room stands finished, sealed, immaculate.

What comes of this—
Collapse or coronation—
Is not resolved by verse nor voice nor stone.

Almost as if the ending were not his.
Almost as if the ending waited thee.

Written by Marguerite Grace 
Copyright Protected