Author and Poet Tracey Conley Bray
Eyes toward heaven
Upward she looks
Head hung low
She reaches for her bible
Worn and tattered
She refuses to let go
She reaches for her tonic
She turns and face her demons
No clarity in the bottle
Nowhere left to run
Except to the savior
Just like her grandma taught her
A shared bond
Grandma bosoms
She folds
Arms closed
She bends
On her knees she goes
She stop and listens
In her ear
A familiar sound
Grandma voice
Moans and hymns
“Amazing grace how sweet the sound”
Instinctively she runs
Faster and faster
Sanctuary lies within her arms
Grandma bosoms
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