If I give it all

Take what you need now honey, and do what you like

Dont worry about me mama, I'll be alright.

Doesn't matter what happens, when I wander, my brothers come after me.
It all crumbles in the end, doesn't it? I fumble as what I relied on to be reliable, fails me. I can't blame the consistency of the future on the men around me, despite what I think. I keep thinking on how the ground has fallen underneath my feet, returning to despair, but leveling when work calls on me. I cant blame the floor, for space-time is a non-entity. I can't hate my Brother-King, he is in the very breath I breathe. And he is lovely.
But of course I did. I had my heart split in fractions, one wanting to rest in truth, one looking for validation in falsehood.

My brothers came after me. They sought after me. And they stayed with me.
That meant so much to me.

When I say the Sentry is supernal, I mean it. We can't look at each other as the blind see the blind. There's not enough time to disregard, based off the insight of our fleshy hearts. Eternity weighs on every man. Yes, by grace we are savaged, and in grace we must understand. Thats where providence is found, not in buildings, not in systems. Those crumble.

The Sentry and The Champ return me to the climb. There's a city on a hill that I must reach, but there were some old ghosts keeping me, speaking to me, as if they had a right.

they don't. they only have what is given.

The Champ is an Emerald Shepherd, I dont know if he sees that. Both he and the sentry speak words of weight. Words of weight in their humanity. I see sainthood in their compassion, in their defense of The Lord and his Kingdom. Namaste. Namaste.

Often, I feel weak around them. But I guess thats fine. He is strong in my weakness.

And His Grace is enough for me. Its all I need.
Its in his kindness that I am drawn to repentance. And its in the spirit of repentance that I know He's present; there in that time, I know He's worthy. I know why I call him Brother-King. Its gentle, and sweet.

I owe You my future. I owe You my all.

Only cause it already belongs to you. You bought me. You bought me with your love.
I am yours.

Providence in Buruchaperu

There is a season for everything.
Some peoples seasons play out like chapters.

When they remember the events of their lives, they flip through pages, skim through certain paragraphs and idolize others, and when the chapter is over they move on to the next one.

I never quite worked like that. I always lived at last minute, my head was down, and life hurled me around like a comet. What a fiery orbit. That was the world that I lived in. I was bold and brash, and I spoke the ramblings in my head like grand prophecy. I stirred up my fire whenever the storms were brewing and I held tight to the riddles of those romantic dreams. The chapters were rolled together, one incoherent paragraph. The plots never died down, it was all spitfire rolling into gasoline. One barrel detonating after another. One great fireworks show.



Now, the things in the room are still rattling and theres still a light in the corner flickering. My hair is ruffled and I am still slowly unclenching my fist. I'm letting go of romantic dreams and grasping parables to fill those open seams between my ribs and heart. I am going somewhere else, where things are not so dusty, where the scent of flesh doesnt lay on the breeze.

I spent to many years chasing after that scent.

 I can never get those years back. I can never get those years back.

Then again, I cannot retrieve next year after its done. I will feel the hands of ghosts then as I do now. I cannot sway suffering and ask him to leave me be. But I can have providence and I can turn from myself unto more beautiful things. I can listen to his words and place them like precious jewels in my heart. I dont need to necessarily wrap a chain around my waist. I may have a fever but I haven't quite built up a sweat like her. My blood is thicker now, despite how poisoned it is. I'll probably need a specialist.

As much as I do need professional help, I've gotten through the brush with the help of my Punksaints. It was by their help that I got the courage to cut the throat of the sea-monster Psalv-Muron and it was by their help that I entered the hands of the Buruchaperu. It was from the hands of Buruchaperu that the Young Cardinals came to me, and now I return to their home with them. Fitting, isn't it? It's funny, this feeling that I'm home. Home feels pretty foreign to me.

The folks here are the rusty saints that my heart has called out for in my rebirth. 

I spent the years looking for someone like you Brother King.

Some wore your scars, others carried your luminescence.

But I havent seen a man shine through their scars, not like you do.

Not till now.

I was always waiting for something to happen. For a grand miracle amongst the explosions. For the troops of angels to come down in a whirlwind and arrest the tyranny and the hostility. I spent a lot of time clicking my red heels and wishing for home. More time wishing than praying anyhow.

I always thought somewhere deep that fortunes belonged to the richer men.
But, by God, how rich my life is. How full of providence and blessing it is.

Im scared to believe in these wayward dreams, and I'm scared to sleep without the static running in the background.

If the Champ asks, yeah Im doing alright. Got a parable in my right hand and a torch in my left. Gonna run with those scarred saints and were gonna sleep and pray before we go out to drive.

It'll be right. Got Providence on my side.

Identity of Blood

Behind my shoulder someone is watching me. Keen to keep pace, to guide my steps. Imperfection has made its way into their words, and death flows from them into my life. Death flows into life. Love is to risky, to dangerous. We have to keep close to the shadows, we can’t be seen or heard.
My voice spills out words into another’s life. I am watching over their shoulder, keen to keep pace. My words have always been known to be laced with imperfection and pride. But who could I tell that to? They will devour me like wolves. They will leave no way out.

I see now how the cornered channel their frustrations into their children. Poison is passed from one generation to another. We would die for that poison. We would die for our pride. Thankfully, you don’t have to work to hard to die, the poison is potent.

My ancient fathers spoke of liberty and justice. 

What is that to the soul? 

When do I feel the hammer of liberty and freedom separate the sickness from the love? 

Where is liberty from pride?

I’ve felt pride capitalize and customize the quarters in my heart. I’ve known pride to prey on those sick lives, the ones I loved most. And at PRIDES DEATH, seven more return. SEVEN MORE in its place, seven more bring their deathly stench to replace.

Where is liberty from pride?

When, ancient fathers, would we make it home safe and sound? Where ancient fathers have you made your home? Are we included? Were you going to insure that promise with your heart, and did you lose all sight when you lost your passion? Did you speak false hope out of fear?

Am I dead to you?

Are you dead to me?

Can you feel the cost of  your pride?

 I can feel your wounds now. I see your intentions rise up inside of me. I hear your words on my lips.I understand your dead words and I know what your tired teeth were trying say.

I get it now, but I feel the weight of your losses.

The weight has taken its toll. It grinds against my bones and gives me fury while I sleep.
Further and further and deeper and deeper the anger treads. Down to the darker corners in my heart wrath resides.

Parts of me have died because of this poison! Sacred and sweet parts of me.

God I hate it all.

Dear God.

God, sometimes you burn in my bones like fire. Your ministry of reconciliation is the warmth of my skin.You inspire the spark in my eyes. But days like now, they aren’t like that. They are days when I feel dull and used and torn and broken. I don’t feel like a joyous celebration of Gods glory.

I mean, I still love you. With all my heart. And I want to love those who hurt me. I want to love myself, despite my error. I get carried instead by ghosts and old fumes of denial. Not by you. I have to speak the truth.

I have been ungodly and impure. And I have violated myself with pride and hate and despair.
I don’t want to be ashamed to see you. I don’t want to be full of death.
When I look at you I see a deeper truth than all this brokenness. I see sober-hope but still a spectacular redemption. A family becomes a grand bride, made pure and anew, by the murder of sweet Christ. The death of my sweet brother-king for the holiness of a dead people. New Identities, from new blood. We are born in dead blood, but reborn of living blood.

The truth counters the weight of the trespasses. My identity is not found in my heritage or actions or experience. It is defined by that First Heir of the New Kingdom. 

My Brother-King is the only one who weeps with me. He groans in ways to deep for words.

During these summer nights when I cant hold myself from thinking of death he comes around.
Sweet and majestic and quiet he sings me through.

In Malachi it says God has a book of remembrance. So do I Lord. I will remember what you do.

I will remember your kindness to me.

I will remember your kindness to me.