 The word which bids confusion cease
And answers the pleas of a lost generation, That worships at the feet of Scoff and Reason, The gods of the age. That little word, the enemy it shall fell, That sets the mad in their right minds And opens the ears and the eyes Of the deaf and blind. That word which dispels the black night And stands firm after the towers crumble And the dust billows roil the morning sky And the creation groans under the curse. No word offers more hope in an age fertile in death Than that which bids the sorrows cease, The word that stops the torrents and waves With one hand lifted in authoritative calm But.
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I weep in the dark hours of the night,
Presently aware of your absence. I sometimes wish I did not believe What I do believe and must believe: That you were, that you are a who, not an it or an if. How can joy be bundled, Wrapped up in one so infinitesimally small? Formed, yet unformed? Given, yet taken? But my eyes well not from this knowledge, They spring, yes, from bittersweet. You, whose face I have never seen, Whose hand I have not held, See what I long for and dream of. You have touched the hand of the One I love without sight. You are unknown, yet known so well. Though once aimless and searching,
Though he once smiled, while he ached, He is home. Though once enamored with man’s approval, Though applause was his pursuit, He is alive to One. Though scars still stain his leathered skin, Though his nostrils can still smell ash, He is cleansed. Though once enslaved and shackled, Though once bound by chains of self, He is free. He is cool, suave, and collected.
A million bucks. Dressed to kill. He’s admired on the sidewalk. “Confident!” “Charming man!” He smells of things that sparkle Lavish things, valuables. His skin is bronze and glowing. Fog machine, looking glass He laughs so debonairly. Warning sign, “Don’t come near” He is good, and they all know it. White-washed, sepulcher He shines in his arena. It’s not true; lost control His home is so inviting. Titanic chairs, cotton sweets He surely has all the answers. Anchor gone, puff of smoke He flinches for a moment Could it be? Heavy heart. He ponders and he paces Palpitate. Beading brow. His nostrils flare, intaking Putrid smells, bile fumes He hears, but black engulfs him. Stifling breath, hot and dense His senses dead and thriving. Burning throat, taste of ash He chokes inwardly in torment. Wretched man. Farewell to hope. His chains are self-inflicted. Rotting flesh. Oozing sores. His fetters locked securely This is it, nothing more. His bloodied slave block claims him. Worthless man, fit to die. His tears stream bitterly from him. “I am lost! No hope is found!” He hangs his head, defeated. His bed is made. The die is cast. “Oh, God!” he cries out madly. “Rescue me! The end I’ve found!” |
AuthorTy Perry is a writer and blogger living in metro Detroit. Archives
December 2023
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