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Poem

Conception’s stain imputed sin again
my first cry swallowed by a bulb syringe.
At five years old, a chapel’s altar call
remained in me, the echo of your name.
Among a culture’s art of chase and hunt,
temptation’s treasures took my youth away,
my own Bathshebas broke Pandora’s box.
A pride unwilling for divine reproof,
evolved a spoken vengeance into blades
that would deliver the wounds my fists couldn’t.
Profane reflections gave illusions right,
the blind impatience always in my heart
to feel the edge of your permissive will,
left bones now heavy with the wages paid.
A whisper under the seas of our noise,
conviction bleeds the shadows from our hearts,
devoid of life, the chambers shown depraved.
The light of Christ’s salvation left untouched
at every worldly summit – nothing there.
Can’t get through the eye of the needle gate,
a want, to need, submit to bread and wine.
To change a man, the written Sword will carve
itself inside the soul, a life now new.
Not just what you have done or what you give,
but more of what you are that answers why.

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Written: 02.15.18

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