She spoke and when she spoke
I saw in her spoken word my heart,
What all my aspirations strove for
What I was trying to die for was in her
Death for truth.
I will not photoshop the truth she said
Or blur the lines or
Break the sorrows she said
And what craved in me resonated.
The devil is the King of First Impressions she said
And I went yes! in assent,
I cried out in assent,
I cried out, in assent.
But when I looked into my assenting
My assenting within wanted to go back
To admit the memories the king of this
And give them fruit.
I asked that they they bear fruit….
Ask that they bare fruit.
But when I look into my assent
All I saw was nothing at all.
All I saw was the past that wasn’t there.
Bare. But there it was
Bare and hurting withal.
The monster of not is, is not
And a black abyss of what was is not,
A womb that bore and disappeared.
There was hurt.
I looked back and all I saw was black.
I looked back and all I saw was white.
I looked back and all I saw was hurt.
And I looked back and all I saw was night
And I looked back and all I saw was stark
There was only whiter Paradise
A paradise that I saw black
A paradise that I saw night
That I saw not right.
How in the darkest stories now….
The darkest learnings how
The blood of the past mingles with mine
Where mine gains life and comes to glean its air.
Breath where kindled kindred spirits lie
Where graveyard haunts and Crucified lie
And what was is not with the mortal dead says lie,
With mortal dread says “lie”
To the heart that wounds wounded poison breath to listen in and cries
When all around is hurt.
When self-pity is self-reproach and
Demon’s haunt is Ella’s coach
The burn is new eternal hurt.
When one wounded is one forgotten abandoned now, one traitor burning good,
It’s self pity, abandonment, loathing, hate-hurt.
When what oozes out of wounded flesh is sin
When what is white tears of innocents
Breaks into flares within
When weeping ones become the din….
Where then, What then, is sin?
When each one lives in a world of weary toil
When a dreary veil covers very soil
And weeping whistles through
The…what is sin?
When withering, weeping, mourning moans and groans
Of going ghoulish gaunt ghouls go monstrous in
Widowhood of fallen state sin.
Sin can’t be the wailing at the gate,
The woo of wolves who crave the key
Who crave the key to what sustains.
The broken heart can’t be
The sinner’s sentence and the sinner’s sin.
The poison cannot be poison blood itself
When one is in labyrithine mold of sin.
Then when the withered mold is warm
And when the shortest sentence of His Word flies home,
The Spirit listens and must hear our moans.
Don’t photoshop the truth, don’t heed the
King of false impressions. When the black whole
Was is not comes in and God’s knife
Threatens to keep you there or make you new
Stay the warm hand withering
And just don’t let the blood run cold.
For he who mourns is made of gold.
Jesus wept and men are bold
When courage comes
Above the doubt to stop the flow of widows out.
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