Teach me some melodious sonnet.

There is a room where I have collected myself on curious mornings. I have been flooded with thoughts that are deprecating to the soul, that do not stem from logical discourse, but from fear when I am amongst the unknown. And I have discerned that there are demons, who rage against my family; where I have thought there was enough suffering, more brokenness ensues. Evil arises and rears its ugly head, challenging everything I believe in.

I do not understand.
Panic is a powerful thing; it aims to reveal the hopelessness of every situation. In a sense, panic is as natural as depravity is. Often we turn a blind eye to suffering to keep a steady temperament. But I feel morally obligated to pursue truth at the expense of my own emotional stability. The irony is, as I pursue naturalistic truth, my own depravity gets the better of me, and corrupts my mission. So instead I pursue logical vindication for the convictions of my pride and shame. And my mind becomes a wasteland once again.

There is a balance though. A resurgence even. With every lie whispered, a prayer is spoken. With every temptation, a foreign dialect makes a perfect plea.
I am surrounded by men encircled with golden light. Cowboys covered in grace, elected for armored battles. Upon my confession, resurrection is on their lips. This is the culture of Buruchaperu- shelter and sanctuary to the broken and humbled.
Within Buruchaperu there is a room. I meet with the Brother-King and I tell Him all my secrets. Upon His request, and solely that, I bear to Him all my afflictions. We shake together in the wave of the ether. I am lost without this time. I am at drift at sea, I am bound by the weight of my iniquities, I am a prideful coward in my ministry if it is not for this time. I pity the lost moments, for my life is a gift.
My greatest fear is that an agenda against my King has risen from my influence. From my apathy. In my panic I call for my last rites. I do not want my King to bear the weight of my iniquities. But when I make the claim to my own suffering and wrath that is due my King cries to me "GET BEHIND ME, SATAN!"

He is fierce for my heart. He has jealousy demanding as the grave. And I am not sure of the amount of honor I bestow upon Him. There is a great voice that says it is "Nothing". There is something in my heart that agrees with the accuser. But He would wrestle with me, and pin me and bless my head. You my Holy Brother, would bless me without my approval. In the blessing I am aware of the False King. The words of the Juggernaut were always coming from the Throne Room. But upon entering, I see he is restrained by the Beatific Secrets, and his authority was a hoax. My definition lies with the Word of the Kadosh Triumvirate.

I weep at the reality of an Identity in a blessing that was given to me. It is enough for me. I don't need to be Einstein or Edison. Upon seeing the face of Grace, knowledge just gave me reason to rejoice in an indiscernible syllogism. It was holier if I did not know. It was more imitate as I fell forward into trust. I only hold a finite vision in my eyes, would it not hold to stand that if I cast my cares upon the Person of the Steadfast Truth, that my vision would cease to be necessary. So it seems my search for understanding is finished. Jesus Christ is the truth. His Grace is enough. That is the object of my pursuit.

The Father is proud of me. The Father blessed me.
In the hidden rooms of Buruchaperu, My torch became a Red Sword, which was engulfed in a flame that did not burn. It rests at my right hand, for I rest now in the temple of my Father.