This,
even this, won't last. Bereavement is impatient with it's arrival. You wait on the first step to the library, dark shadows cast upon you from the passerby, you don't bother putting your hair behind your ears because you don't have the type of hair that would stay. You look up, you're waiting for a sign. A plane to fall from the sky, to wreck havoc, to cause mischief. Or maybe something more subtle, a bird. A bird that flies mysteriously low, too close to earth, too close to human kind. Perhaps something on the inside, like your lungs, too tired to hold air, too weak to expand. You leave the step, your legs are strong and they carry you far. Till you arrive at your mind, too small to trust God, too fickle to know that you are permanent. Trouble not your heart to despair. This, even this, is eternal. Temi.F
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I trust in the Father, Son and Holy Spirit,
But the Love of God doesn't numb my lust, Maybe because I'm lost, Unable to clasp onto the notion of Him being enough, His plan is too robust and unfathomable to the young, Old soul but I know enough to not be called dumb, I know enough to know I know nothing, I know what I shouldn't like the ecstasy of busting a nut, Let me come humbly to my knees Lord almighty release me from my vices, Remove the price on my head, hard to look straight into the eyes of the holy when I'm still salty about the spices that burnt me. Shackled by juvenile mentalities, is my maturity just superficiality? I digress when the stress of excess living hangs heavy on my eyelids like the drooping folds on a poorly tailored dress. That is how I am, the unfinished article - published for all to see, but still under editing. That doesn't stop the scrutiny. See, He has a plan for me. I see those who terminated their subscription to organised religion after the three month trial that gave them guilt free confessions & celestial possessions. By New Year's Day they'll be making use of their warranty, apparently all they need is an apology. But surely, how much longer can one ask for concessions before He confirms the rejection? My dejection is self-inflicted. Even if he could tell I am conflicted, He cannot allow me to constantly misuse my influence. I tell myself I am still in the cocoon but maybe I just need pimping. Butterflies flourish in the warmth of the summer, under the sun provided zeal, I remember how His demise was so gory, may He baptised me in His blood oh Glory to thee. Lord I am Sorry. Zupe |
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October 2016
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