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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required Distressed, I attest, Like not blessed, A voice in my head, Said out of bed, So I was led to A quiet church, As owls sang out, Midnight gone tombs, And my tears appeared, Death beckoned long finger nails of distraction, And so I gazed upon an open Abbey, with folk awake that caused a shake, God botherers with likely guitars, a melange of niceness where only grief was sat. So I drifted in, hiding behind tissues of my own life lies, and sat prepared to run, quite prepared and scared, from that worse than death, the well meaning Christian. Then as I sank into the pews, staring up from rotten shoes, my woes, my blues, I saw floating in midair, a man, with dark blooded hair, and I knew then I was crazy within my distress, not blessed. But as that thought, which came to nought, crossed my elitist demeanour, I shared everything he felt, and at that moment, beyond compare, exquisite agony my problems became less than my being, now seeing Christ. Never one to take miraculous moments without scepticism, I stood disbelieving, a rescued Thomas who had seen, unseeing, still unbelieving. So I walked with much chagrin towards the font my eyes had seen, to find rational reasons, A reflection, some explanation, for why of all people this soul of mine, might be saved by one whose face I had denied for so long, that no song could ever write my wrongs, and there in a Pentecostal moment, I gained insight into the wind that came at night, where no delight was held for me, an agnostic changed now for all eternity. A man unworthy of that name, came to faith, kicking, screaming at how unfair, it was to find that God was really there, and worse, so much worse, he knew my name, and despite my attempts, cared enough to save my day. @Andrew Carnegie, Bessay Lighthouse, 28th December 2016. A true story. If you would like to know a bit about me and my poetry please click this link below: https://youtu.be/Ic_V7aX4xbk
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