Oil from the Ache

I didn’t learn this in comfort.
I learned it in the cave
where prayers turned to groans
and groans turned to oil.

They saw my light
but not the pressing.
They heard the sound
but not the silence that shaped it.

The ache was not wasted.
It was wrung
until it became worship.

Every “why” I whispered,
He caught.
And crushed it
into fragrance.

Now I do not speak
from theory.
I pour from the place
where my heart broke open
and Heaven said,
“This too will anoint.”

I carry oil
from the ache
and it marks everything I touch.

—Joe Restman
Mystic-Scribe | Flame-Bearer
Quill Dipped in Lightning ⚡️