Sunday, November 9, 2008

a soul picture dark

I sat down to write a prayer this morning and this is what came out. It is both me and not me.

I'll make no apologies
For the dichotomies
Between what I know
And what I feel.
This is real.

I guess it's a day for poetry.
Read it quickly, with an angry, urban tone.

A soul picture dark
flower stem
soot-smeared gray
and withered.
shrunken, twisted, bent
stone-heavy weak
no delicate not glass
worn clothes time strained
thin and stretched and withered.
revolting altogether inspiring
no pity--vomit.

I open my mouth to scream
And swallow a lie
I can't deny
That the sky is heavy
But my eyes are dry.
Where's your dream, Mr. King?
Maybe you played Moses,
but we're still wanderin--
Hope aside.
It's just pride that hides
this black soul
My white-washed smile collides
with what truth?

But Lord you know I'm angry
And hanging on a thread.
But I'll pretend.
I'll pretend.
Get out of bed and live
Until life breaks.

For this soul grace?
No. no good.
In this shrunken shell Spirit?
no room. to live and move
This fire breath flickers
No. no space.
it suffocates.

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