Every morning of every day I awaken
to the blackness of the predawn hours
to the silence of communities sleeping
children running through dream landscapes
opening doors in the corridors of their psyche
revealing wildflowers waving in soft meadows
or angry bears, or men wielding machetes.
The silence is profitable for purpose
yet every single morning I make the same poor choice
in those hours when God calls me to communion
I choose a book, the world news, crocheting
or brain dead, time eating machines.
but the proof of my unworthiness
blatant and apparent, bone white in ghostly form
but to proffer the old adage
that God shall not be mocked
but the reminder that those who turned back
are not fit for the kingdom.
My Soul is already in Hell
very much alive in its own personal agony
it's face distorted with the anguish of knowledge
screaming, yet not bewailing it's fate
just screaming in its solitary torment
in the absence of mercy and grace.
but that one simple phrase
"so that not one is left with excuse."
Just average in simplicity
never being motivated by fear
only love, mercy and compassion
could ever draw me near.
Yet, knowing miraculous things are possible
and that God is tender love
in it's perfected fulfillment
I awake in the predawn hours
and turn on the world news
knowing that God has called me
and I am left without excuse.