Lost Son

Sintered from the dust of dying stars This vessel of mine was, By hands that reached down Through the veil above, And together with one generous breath Bestowed upon it This uncanny spark—this soul— That man so very hubristically Dared to name so. From the tenderest of age, I felt a magnetic pull— A silent tug upon my heart, And upon that uncanny spark— To cede way to the craving of the day, To wield this vessel as I chose: This great gift of free will— To speak, and act, and squander it As I so pleased. And in so doing, unbeknownst To my young heart— Though surely not to He Whose hands, within the gusty gale, reach down through the starry veil— This truly splendid vessel, Sintered from the dust of dying stars, Bestowed with this wondrous spark, Echoed each day more... From a hollowing dark, Within its mined-out core. I felt so weak That first time on my knees— My first admission of regret, Fingers knit in sacred weave Upon the edge of my tousled bed, Still warm, still rich with the aroma Of a woman whose name I hadn’t cared to ask. Toward the leaden clouds I cast— A weary sigh into the stormy sky. If miracles are truly real, They're surely cellared with great zeal, And left to age like vintage wines, Until the Heavenly Divine before the worthy sets them forth, Conferred upon His fruitful crop, Whose future hopes now shine on high, Not hurled into the muddy slop To bless the vile swine—like I. I've watched my life pass by Like a slideshow of selfishness. This vessel defiled, By rapturous chemicals, This spark, By the whims and wants of an imbecile. On my knees, so many times, since that first regretful night. As I am now, chin down, under the moonlight, Here with no right, begging of his might— A humbled man's intent, a stirring, This cherished spark, with its God conferring.