There was so much chatter,
just so much chatter.
There was contradiction of good and evil, but only good seeing good
evil stuck on what should be good
but blindness
keeping all from seeing all,
and making liars out of good-natured wrist holders.
Where are those genuine hand-holders? Where are those days spent in the sand when land
after land,
…(emphasized pause) after land
is nothing more than a place we were always trying to flee,
but told ourselves time, and again,
that we actually loved it there.
Loved it there, so much that we deny the messages of our God,
Creator of love, who knew otherwise
and we just spat on the just pamphlet laid at our feet, on sidewalks we should have never walked upon,
holding hands with someone upon which we should never have laid eyes.
There's paint in the middle of the street, and as we walk further and further from where we should (italics) be
I envision, as you talk on and on (so it would seem, though I knew otherwise),
about falling deep into that paint splatter, dreading nothing
not even darkness,
knowing,
I can perfectly well see the light as I stand and bask in it.
Why does distress take hold? Why must I continually call out in the night for protection from
the one who seeks my destruction?
Night after night/day after day
It doesn't seem fair, or even make sense that something so pure and beautiful could be turned into, perversed rather, into
someone/thing (as I refer at the behest of St. Michael) seeking nothing but ugliness and filth?
I am lost this day, and tortured by the recollections of demons I never faced, never calling upon the angels who were ready
and willing
to be at my side.
Staunchly, in my corner and going no where unless I command - I now know -
...but not without fire…
again and again
Night after night/day after day
this is the land that I face; the river that I attempt to jump across only to find myself interested in the current
so deep of spirit, and yet so
unwilling,
unwilling to truly jump.
Make sure that's not you.
Make sure that's not me.
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