The Armor of The Saint (Final Chapter)

There will be more caves to travel through. But with this last entree I am ending "To Fight The Sun"

For the most part, this past year has been unchronicled. Partly due to the fact that the past season has been full of my sharpening. My red sword has reached a strength, every swing has purpose, every joust is well placed. I have been training with my father.
 Salvation comes with trembling.
There is a weight to the violations and the transgressions both against me and by me. My pleas for prayer have been met with angels at my side. Together the heavenly host and I have sorted out the reasons for stoning, the milestones included. I've got a nice little pile stacked up for me, but it's dust in the wind by the breath of my Lord.
His breath is continuous. His breath manifests a pillar before me.

I can't reinvent my religion, it's as singular as the resurrection and only as practical as our reconciliation. The consistency of the King keeps me glad to be alive in the face of anxiety and circumstantial uncertainty. Continuous calamity can only be met by unrivaled joy of the Father. By the cross all things are possible.
If we truly are risen with him
if he calls us Saints
if the Father really does see Christ when he see's us
if he declares Christ to be who we are
If that, then thus;
Our identity is secure. Sin has no hold on us, Sin has no authority over us, Sin is not even of us. Do saints sin? We must separate our Identity from our carnal natures. Surely we still sin, but sin is not from our establishment as sons of God; and that is surely our true nature, our true self. I have cast off the term sinner. I am a Saint.
With this revelation, I have finally seen my shield. My faith has come to a culmination in this, I am a Son of God. The shield of faith may not be large, but within the mysterious wood there is a double portion of deep magic to keep me safe. I am protected.
My faith was not missing throughout my life, Christ- the Author of my Faith- was protecting my back as journeyed through the dark.

As my red sword shines in full brilliance, the word of God (which is spirit) illuminates the fullness of these caves. The enemy does not approach unseen. Within the bride I am fully equipped to defend myself against the enemy. Not only thus, but with authority, to speak life and vitality into God's faithful elect.

The phrase, To Fight The Sun, was purposed to refer to the futileness of resisting God. The sun is life-giving, and beyond the scope of the power of a man. In the same way, God desires to only pour our life from himself, and he makes men like blades of grass. Greater knowledge of him brings a conviction to greater faith and trust. I was born naked, now I am clothed by the armor of God. In full awareness I am equipped.

I am restored. I am reconciled. I am resolved.

I am new.

Onto Aslan's Land.

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.

Short breaths and slow prayers

There are distances and calculations on my mind. A revolving mass of intangible obstacles orbits my head, till exhaustion brings me to that dreaming space. My thoughts are a wasteland of fiction.
As I sort through what's fantasy and memory, I wonder if those years are reconcilable to me.

Brother-King, what impossible feats do you have at your command to terraform such a planet into the kingdom of heaven? I'm thinking through an incomplete melody, the sound is still sweet, but the lyrics are lost on me. I'm listening for the words in between, but I feel incapable of any capacity of trust. I'm dying for the mystery inside the miracle, and I'm appalled that there's something in me that thinks its identification is elsewhere. This shouldn't hurt, should it? The stress in my back persists as I run home, I have short breaths and slow prayers. The anxiety seems chronic to our sub-species and also hereditary and to be transferred by bloodstream. I've thus contracted doubts and ghosts and lies. How can something so empty seem so romantic to me?

The Desert Emissary has been digging with me for months, and we've been pretty sure these caverns go deeper. He's been pushing me to build a temple, and I've been speaking of taking up sword and spear. My patience fled when the scramble started again, and I've felt pretty raw ever since. Still reverberating spurned memories, I can't believe that nostalgia is getting to me. Every illogical sentiment springs rage where romance once grew, I can't trust the possibilities.
My brother Emissary listened diligently as I tried to find the end of me. No magic could conceive the desire my blues seems to need. I'm not a travelling man at heart, I'll come back home to hide away in a couple of rooms. Sometimes I have to leave though, when I'm being beckoned by this hollow sober sickness. I know glittering spectres can't lead me across burnt bridges. I know self examination can't produce all the answers to the unsettled questions I carry. I guess I can't see everything.

I want to see everything

I wish to be the effective wordsmith that with each syllable manipulates fates and illuminates weighty truth. Rather, I'm more of a miner digging through hard stone, stuck on a hunch that the gold is just on the other side of the bedrock. If my soul is a cavern, I'm the one trying to burrow deeper into secret subterfuge. Any futile labor biased falsehood leaves wonder betrayed. I've left my wonder betrayed.
If the evidence that darkness has no substance is written on my hands then why are eyes so desperate to see it? I can't wrap my mind around it. I can't wrap my mind around it all.

And I'm wondering if wandering blind is the intention, if my life started out an exodus
Forty years in the desert till I stepped up for my fathers. Time burns before my bed, and my mouth waters while I watch. By the power of fantasy, our hearts are unaligned to reality, by the power of fantasy, our eyes turn from truth.

On many attempts I've sought out a change in intellectual process, but the fruit of knowledge has grown bitter in my mouth too many times. I've been stubbornly building a tower of babel and I've been making a lot of loveless noise. Should I shut my mouth, I hear the voice of God. In all my searching, I've been speaking through the subjects, but grief comes quickly to rambling men.
Thankfully,
The Entity of Weight comes to threshing floor to wrestle the punksaints and eternal cowboys. The mystery of his breath brings reasoning men to bow in worship. His words are sharper than any sword on my belt, and his eyes burn like lamps, bright with understanding and clarity. Humility comes over the room like a shockwave, we know our Messiah has returned.

 Quiet and patient, I wait on the Master.

Like a child, I am received by the king. Like a blind man, Jesus gives me sight. I can't see everything, but the love of my life is within constant vision. I can lay down the mantle of scientist and pick up the yolk of this relationship. And my Brother-king, he is making a way for me, he is making a place for me to call my own. When mischief of this world burns away, I can come to him and receive my home. Sweet vision, lay my mind to rest, I make my home in your sacred heart.

Nourishment

Cultural inclinations and categories hold their meaning in daily communications, actions and perceptions. My ability to be different from all the other regular attendees is completely uninspired and if I ever hope to grow to become something greater than whats under the sun, I have to meet the expectation for depth that I have committed myself to.

Why pursue such a vigorous course? Because I have all my cards in the truth. I am dedicated to alleviate the falsehood in my mind. I've been licenced to carry this sword on good faith, and I have been coordinated into glory and interwoven into wonder. But I cannot recieve hope on an empty promise, nor can I receive the blessings of a false deity. I tell you the truth, I've struggled my whole life with false deities. I'll count sleepless nights, clocking in to a network of shame and fallacies. Behind my eyes lies distorted chemistries of addiction and narcism. Thought that I looked like a more honest man, but I always had a sneaking suspicion that I was a thief at heart. I'll trade that heart in, but I'm hesitant to receive unwarranted gifts from a mysterious warrior. But when the sun comes out, I always see that he is a King cloaked in purity, flowing from his heart and lips. He's got a gnash in his side ten inches wide and there are holes in the same hands that fed me bread when I was a kid.

 I'll tell the king, I remember very well the times when I was fasting and I didn't mean to be fasting, but I went without. I would reflect on those who daily went without, they were on the television right after the commercials for my favourite fast food joint. Being a greedy child growing up under the Nazarene I had mixed feelings about nutrition. I spent my time speaking to the romantics; I liked the story they whistled up during their hopeless nights. The consequences of amusement park love songs seemed to rest as far away as I wished them to be. When I grew up I witnessed how many go lucky killers had nostalgia as their epitaph and the kids on the block had rumors about my tombstone going up as soon as I hit rock bottom. I was pretty sure that was what the Juggernaut had planned for me. Had I forgot the one who was broken so I could be remade I don't know if I would have gotten my nutrition straight. If I ate what they fed me, it didn't matter how much I received because tommorow I'd be twice as hungry as yesterday, with a headache to top it off.

Juggernaut made so many promises, and I believed everyone. His soul was as hollow as mine, but I grew up under the Nazarene. Instead of  leaving me to despair, at a young age, I knew a king who died to fill this empty carcass with an everlasting spirit. Serenity, selfless affections, an exuberance of life; these were laid into my hands as gifts of grace. And as I ate of them warmth returned to my body. The wellspring cup of saving blood overflew and ran down my beard onto my chest as I drank. As I returned from my impoverished place into the tabernacle of holiness that he declared my home. Communion fed my soul and brought me home.

Look and see, a Grand Commision followed by resolutions based in eternal convictions fertilizes a heart to grow deep roots of hope. Earthquakes come and apostates are confronted and weakness undermines all my self righteous claims. But the hope remains, and the gospel remains. Brother-King is walking with me uphill as I dwell on destruction, bent in stubbornness on vindication and pride. With each step I'm belittling a creator and spitting curses and spurning righteousness, all the same he claiming me as his own. God's wrath is satisfied in the substitution of blood and the ordinance or restitution is completed in my communion with an intimate deity.

 I cannot turn from the sun for its radiance surrounds me; and Christ, in all his providence, remains present in my insecure immersions in idolatry. I'll take up sword and cross; Grace in all his majesty compels me by beauty; securing for me daily, riches in dreams and aspirations for compassion and reconciliation, that are beyond me.

The milestone hosannah

Take away this median, I will not just be the medium, but the source. On short notice I would like to concieve into you a different spirit. I'd to renew you with my enlightened insight, and captivate you with my self-produced piety and power.



No, I do not see into the everlasting nor do I understand the inner workings of eternity. I am not the infinitely righteous incarnate, but I am often defining myself by the thoughts of existential corpses. I will stand on these vanity based prophecies; I might curse your soul, but I will glorify my pride. It's not necessarily that I have a warhead planted at your head, but the shrapnel is coming your way all the same. Deception captivated my fathers generation like it has captivated mine. And in time, if I am not constantly aware of my speech I will leave a trail of humans caught in the confusion of my hypocrisy.

Woe to the one who speaks much.

Christ, you said your burden was light, but my burden seems to be a milestone. How can this be the plan? That you would have a carnal creep like me, to keep care to the King's most precious sheep? In retrospect to the relationships you blessed me with, I understand my depravity. With the depth of resolve came the struggle to vindication. In vindication and a search for comfort, I became the anesthesia for truth, and the sound of my voice caused men to cringe.

 Do the prayers dissipate the pollution, if the poison was my own solution? By my own hands, I cannot bring comfort to your weary shoulders, I can alleviate momentary pain, but suffering returns of it's own accord. By my own hands, I cannot muster anything lasting. Should you like to stay by my side, I will leave, and I will fade away in time.

I appeal to the mercy promised in abundance, destined to overthrow the earthly authority. I knows the ruins and wreckage among the temples will bust within the fire when the everlasting meets the definite. Thence comes forth the radiance of the Glory of God, and the cold nights will be no more. Sore eyes will find their renewal and nicotine tarnished tapestries will be washed with the blood of the lamb to be as bright as the sons of thunder.

Hosannah

Jesus Christ. A human ruler and a holy king, the suffering servant. I need my life in your hands. Drinking from your wellspring of life, the Spirit of peace and intimacy, I receive the proper words, not to vindicate myself, but to exalt the sacred heart of my beloved Lord. I rest always in my confirmation by this war language, knowing that I am ever-tethered to the sustaining Grace of my Savior.

Glorious light, the way is bright for those whom you call blessed.

Good Jesus, the treasure that you have bestowed at this wretches feet. Ten thousand upon ten thousand upon ten thousand blessings. The melody of your compassion breaks men at their ankles; raptured by symphonies of restitution, and by rhythms of resurgence we are compelled to weep at the feet of the bloody lamb, Son of God and Son of Mary.

As I breathe in the fragrance you were anointed with, I am reminded you were blessed by a prostitute, and you word is spoken through the words of a murderer. Your heart is the ignition and composition of compassion, and by your hand skeletons find skin and flesh. By your hand I find enough hope to sit and be silent and know that you are God.

Blessed be your name.

One thousand blessings and One thousand Curses

Perturbed.

Well, I'm either riddled with anxiety or I'm coercing myself into a drone state of apathy to alleviate the discomfort of feeling like a deadweight. I wonder if there is a difference between being sober and wild with apprehension and expectation, every turning corner a sensation. Still the same in the end. One thousand blessings and one thousand curses. I curtail the list of grievances and exalt with incense and mihr the good and sweet sounds. I apply the echoes of wonder to my daily doctrines and to my planned outlines of the destiny of all. Isn't that the requisite for love based hope, a fucking happy ending?

Still we are burning in our passions and our lusts and we are on fire with tension in our gritty bits as we try to give a fuck about each other. Dear God, I don't want to place aside that struggle for honest meaning for a little time groping your shame centered features.

We exchange stories collected from our hysteria. We are not still as we sigh and wish and wish and wish we could collect those elicit feelings captured in our perfect polaroids. I'd like to place my hand on yours to calm your quivering spirit. I'd like to place my hands on your shoulders and bring back a relaxed state to your heart. I'd like to introduce you to my freaky and fiery friends, whom all have nuances I find extremely charming. I'd like to see my mother console you through your difficult mind, past all the obstacles constructed, by you or my adversary.

I'd like to see a hundred friends gathered round a birthday cake, as every one of them sing to you to the best of their ability a song you probably hate. I'd like to see tears in your eyes, as you realize everyone of these people love you and would give anything for you. If I told you this, you would have a million objections, I know. But I wonder if the thousand blessings I'll pray for you tonight would outweigh the nine hundred ninety nine curses you place upon yourself.

My rotten soul would curse you one time out of spite. Out of its satanic nature. And I'll wonder if I'm the spitting image of my father. Adolescence counted by the clock of sexuality. You might ask if this is really true, if my issues are really this carnal. I'd admit that I'm a blasphemer like the rest.

I just hope, that with the one thousand blessings we got, that maybe my Brother-King can work out something.

For your soul and mine.

Lets, make a promise you and I. Lets value honesty and humility for the rest of our days. I'm convinced I'm wrong on so many accounts, and I keep losing track of those who keep me accountable. Summers surrendering back to the confines of my second guessing spirit can't keep me a child forever. I have to make these blessings work and I need to place confidence on something other than myself.

I have to try to figure the outlaying and arithmetic of my words and boundaries before I go doctoring blessings under laden with self-righteous curses. Every relational entity is fragmented by broken hearts, and I am weary from this asunder fabric we call a church. But it's a melody I can't criticize, as it carries the crucifix for my benefit.

Ten thousand upon ten thousand blessings poured out unto me. Call up the resistance and tell them their tears are for naught, I have a home in heaven. Come along. Cast down your burdens and spit your worst curse my way. Could we stumble into heaven? I'm sure my Brother-King could work something out.

Culture War

No, I cannot put down a hand of blessing upon injustice. Twisted words and neglected context brings a man into disparity. The flustered words of the mother hen won't break down the sin sewn to the backs of these cowardly men. Same way I cannot pull my brothers from the lions den. We could take cynical steps towards undermining their upbringing but you can't wage a culture war and succeed in saving their songs.All my friends would rather raise their glasses then sink to sharp swinging words. Those demons will drag us ten feet deep. Power holds no meaning in regards to the souls uplifting.

No, I don't know where to go with the layman. I would rather spin him up a story to satisfy his rumbling spirit, but he wouldn't wrestle the truth down like I would like him to. He'd fight it for a minute, but then lay for a drink, in the customs he's accustomed to, despite the growing severity.

You ask me, whats so severe. And I'm sure the flustered hen could tell you. She might say the plot is out of order and theres a darker deviousness that would ensue. Just mischief you might say, were not bound by the law. Yet consequences are heartbreaking and mediocrity gets raised as a higher and higher standard of living.  We exalt empty promises, and witty comebacks. That's our victory, that's our solution. But demise is awaiting your last heartbeat. And I wouldn't have it. The thought wrecks me.

I could find words. I could find answers, but It troubles me to systematically meditate upon regiment and structure. I've seen enough hollow homes cascading around as successful stereotypes, playing the worlds game, trying on the emperors new clothes. I understand the flood in this context. God in the highest is here to appease loneliness. But his work seems to overflow with abundant victory despite whatever reason I use to conduct orderly diagnostics.

God, I am convicted of using a scarecrow. I am frightened by falsehood, yet I am addicted to hypocrisy.
The scale of destruction frightens me. I have fantasies about annihilating my enemies, about ripping them limb from limb so that terrorism might seek shelter and not find a place to hide. I am not the Christ. Neither is the Church. But we are missionaries of the ministry of reconciliation. We exist as salt and light and his joy, even if the truth of this is found to be absurdity.

The greater absurdity is this culture war. Neither evangelism nor reconciliation. Before a war against secularism, can we have wrestling within the Church for unity?

For what is a marriage but intimate?

Kid, you could be King

"Turn away from sin, and lift up the cross once again, I can only hope you'll see the need for change"

"Come, now is not only the time for you to not only hear but to move

your hearts become lukewarm
With one foot in fire,
you are bound to burned by the flames"

"Lord have mercy..."

Uncomfortable King, Suffering Servant, I have siphoned sin, I had a communion of death, shared between me and the victim. This is no place for the light of the world to be found. Why do I keep what holds me down? Why don't I unsheathe my sword and massacre my assailants?  Why don't I prove that the impossible has it's evident control? 

And again I speak forth

Why diverge into a subversive role? Why submit your soul?

CONTROL. CONTROL.

He grins and bears his teeth, as I watch for eyes of loved ones to turn away, he says to me

I'VE FOUND A BETTER WAY, I'VE FOUND A BETTER PLACE! LETS LEAVE THIS TOWN, YOU HAVE NO PLACE AMONG THOSE BURIED DEAD IN CONVICTION AND CONDEMNATION.

LET'S DRESS YOU UP IN REAL SLEEK IN FINER SILK. COME ON, YOU CAN BE KING. YOUR ABSOLUTION TO A OXYMORON ASTOUNDS ME, RID YOURSELF OF THIS UNJUST LOYALTY TO TYRANNY (OR IF YOU PREFER, ROYALTY).

and if that weren't enough he goes on to give me my alternative,

INSTEAD YOU COULD TAKE THAT CROSS YOU CARRY, AND HANG IT AS A MILESTONE AROUND YOUR HEAD. I'LL EVEN WALK YOU INTO THE WATER WHERE YOU CAN BE DIE THE DEATH THAT "THE JUST ONE" SPOKE OF. YOU SPEAK OF ANOINTING WHEN ALL I SEE IS YOUR BROTHERS ALREADY BURIED IN THEIR GRAVES. 

he asks me, WHO OWNS THE LAND KID? DO YOU SEE THE AUTHORITY THAT KEEPS EACH SLAVE IN HIS PLACE? WHAT DESTINIES DO THESE FOOLS HAVE WITH OR WITHOUT YOU? 

And I look momentarily at the work of my hands, and think to myself, my God, I am just building up an idol. Why speak when I am blind, why work when my hands just bind. So here I find myself, lukewarm.

Its as if, if I can find a way to frustrate grace, I seek out every justification to do so.

I spoke to the Desert Emissary last night before he dropped me at my house. We talked about how the pendulum swings, and where we leave our hearts. We talked about how we misunderstood time and how we didn't have the right souls to keep glossy eyes.

And we talked about where our victory lied.

When I write down everything Ester-Darker tells me, its apparent where the water runs. Where we can find life to drench our dry bones. Yes, the centrality of Christ is fustrated by falsehood, by that old flesh trying to rise and claim a right to conquer me.

I told the kind Emissary, in all his patience, that our old flesh had no such deed. And in fact, it was because we are eternal kids of the kingdom, that we find that our attempts at building a tower of babel are always undermined. Instead there is an agreement with us, that upon becoming sons we receive a father. And we are victorious because he sent his king to conquer death. And that is the truth in its finality. 

I have been hearing chains for most of my life, around my ankles, around my neck. And I've wondered where they led, and what they entailed. And I thought that this temple or sanctuary or tabernacle could be tall enough to break me free. Now that I've felt the claws of Ester again, I'm reminded by my Brother-King that this tabernacle purposes as a reminder that there is nothing I can do to achieve these spiritual things that my heart yearns for. But by the blood on my hands, by the lamb I slew, the answer has been recovered.

Oh, seven-horned lamb. How can I ever forget this debt of mine? How could you look out into eternity and stand sovereign in your peace knowing the debt would never be repaid.

Take the sacrifice. Not my will, but yours.

Be my sacrifice. Not my will, but yours.

It was your thought, that I could be one who pleases you. Not mine.

Not my will, but yours.

A wish to arise

When someone tells you they see great things in you, maybe for you it builds great courage.

But I'd like to say, that more than I'd like to say, falsehood has a place in my mind to drive that courage away. And fear instantly arises. Its scary how often that serpent can contort his words to look like a suffering servant.Whats worse, is that despite the tiresome work that that imaginative engineer put into building a discerning mind, with full volition I cast empathy aside. Its not like a spell was cast over me. There is no warlock in the closet, no witch hiding beneath the bed. Merely an idea that I could find better rest in a place where men die a lonely death. For all the fruit, that purity, empathy and humility might provide, I'd rather hide from the truth that the heart of God desires that the suffering of man has an end, that doesn't merely lie in our obliteration. 

I'd rather hide in obliteration. 

But I can't. I'm a slave to righteousness, and I will have to see this leprosy leave. Those gluttonous idols are one by one exiting my house, and I'm feeding them bits of soul as they see their way out. And I reason with myself, why would I exalt tyranny over majesty. Why would I trade your love instead of holding onto the pillars of trust you built within my soul.

I always fear I've fallen in love with something thats not you. Loving my righteousness rather than the righteous king. Loving the way I sing rather than a savior befitting of melody.

Savior, bring the defiled to repentance in my house, cause I feel like a pharisee.

I don't think I'm befitting a temple so holy. Don't think I deserve these eyes extended. I'd rather sit a home alone, choking on carcinogens waiting for the cold to pass so that I might breathe my last breath and die. But its not me who reigns here. You cast me off the throne, and you breathed life into the bones. And I gotta settle down in this new life. I've found my bearings, whats a wish to arise?

Tell me Maria, whats a wish to arise?

By the harbor

I still spend a lot of my time thinking about a Maria or a Riku. Some water-spirit sent to sing my fiery tunes. Sent to stand and prophecy amongst the silent. I turn on an acoustic radio, taking me back to childhood lullabies. Yuh know, the things we thought of right before we went to sleep. It wasn't like the complete conviction I rest my hope upon now, rather a naive wonder about what I could rest upon in the future, what sort of paradise I could create for myself. Maybe one woman could bless my life. But as the winter winds blow steady, and I hear the call of the kings men, I reflect on when I should of listened, and what life would have been if I did.

In the quiet he is with me. With thoughts and plans I cannot understand he is constantly with me. Its a mystery to me, where he resides. But his groans rest upon my lips, and his sight upon my eyes. And I say and see things I shouldn't, natures beyond natures.

And it makes me wonder, where is my real home? Is it with Maria, by the harbor, singing sad songs to each other about the mistakes we made making the mistakes we made, on attempts to make a way to find each other. I spend time thinking about whether she will cry, when I tell her about the things I lost and the belongings misplaced in that old house of mine. I think about telling our sons about our sins, and watching them get caught in the traps we ourselves swore we would dismantle in our youth.

All the same. I think the joy we could find once we stop the cycle of fatherless children creating fatherless children would be grand. At least in my line.The way that Eve was helper for Adams soul. The way Christ might find delight in the church. Still, right now, that's something I don't know.

Maria, I don't want to tell you your chances are slim; and I don't want to make a choice out of heartbreak either to be with you or without you. I understand the wrath of the flood. I understand destroying everything for the sake of holiness. And I understand cutting off my connection the way that slumbering Seabear does.

But I'm not apathetic am I? No, I'm just a heartbroken man. Who believes in grace.

Its a conundrum. Natures beyond natures, right? He always with me Maria, even in my transgressions against you. I have evidence. I have the proof. Perhaps in this season of life, that's all I'll need to know. He's all I need is I'll need to know. Maybe down the line I'll be singing that blues with you. Although sweetie, right now it seems if he asked me to, I couldn't refuse him. I did once. I can't again.

My heart can't bear breaking his heart again.

I believe in Grace, and reconciliation. Even for a guy like me. Hell, I believe in it for the ones seem worse than me. Not that they are. I know what I could be.

Don't know his plans. But if he asks me to those plans speak in a foreign language, I will. I will tell a man complete certainty that the abundance of love behinds those words is greater than he understands.

And I believe in words. Even if I don't understand them.
And I believe in God. Even if I don't understand him.

I don't know where we stand. And I don't know if I'm singing the wrong songs. Or if I should look for you. Or if I'm wasting my time with my head in the clouds. Dreaming a dreamers dream. I don't want that, I want the reality of realities. Which is funny, cause I think its a marriage. I'm in love with a king who's in love with me.
Unity is sweet. But I don't know darling. I don't know. I can't tell what the future holds for me. Wish I could.

Be still my soul

Be still my soul
Grievances shall not hold you captive
Pride shall not hide your ears under tumors
Cancers of narcissism will not plague you
Will not save you
That curse will not take you

Anxiety shall not break your sanity
Fear shall not bring down the purity kept for you
The healing kept for you
The love kept just for you

Confusion shall not blot out the inherentance of wisdom
Anguish shall not take claim of the final victory
Neither loss
Neither blasphemy
Blasphemy shall not take truth out of Providence
Whether spoken by you
Whether spoken by the adversary
Shame shall not collect your heart and get away
Sorrow shall not tie down your iniquities to your identity
Poverty shall not damn your position
(despite what you are fighting in)
Suffering shall not throw you into a depth you cannot rise from
Apathy shall not steal from you the vibrancy committed to you
Unforgiveness shall not overpower the mandate of reconciliation
Anger shall not spoil the perfect seed planted in you
Violence shall not reign king over man

The King's name is Jesus
And this is his true-hope

Reverance

It felt like a six-story spirit rested upon my shoulders. He loomed over me, There was no where to go, my feet were unmovable. I was completely sober, and slightly scared. But more so, hopeful.

Now, I am struggling with my mirror. I wrestle with two thoughts. They're thoughts about reflections, the way the light shines on my eyes. No. Not just the light, but what resides deeper within. The first thought was; can you see the spirit inside, or is he just hidden by my pride? Pride overflows my mind with lies, screamin "LOOK AT ME, RAISE THIS SONG OF BLASPHEMY. EXPERIENCE A FULLER REALITY, NARCISSISM IS THE PINNACLE OF CREATION"

The second thought is; as I search myself, trying to find those sacred temples, will I miss your light, miss what makes my temples holy to begin with? Will I get so stirred in my spirit, that I can't stop spinning, caught up in a parallel reality to keep my mind busy in? Or will I retreat, back to my apathy, a comfortable home, or rather a comfortable grave.

But, that's not a really an option is it? Tell blackbird I found a proof of angels equal to the ones we found of demons. In fact tell that to the silent child with the burning eyes, that and that God really is like water. God really is like an ocean of life. Too full to fill anything less than eternity. That he will, if asked, comply with your prayer for a different heart. A heart full of the love you say burned out with chemical stains on your brain. A heart you say can't believe that miracles could happen for you, that too much hope can't be true. He will wash over you like a violent wave, and that leprosy will leave your body, truth will remain.
And you
You will be free
Just as I am now. I think with absolute certainty, that Christ did really die for me, and that he intends to complete his work. I was working so hard to build myself a ship, to sail across a dead sea, to find something in this ocean of nothing. Righteousness was the cloak I was terrified to wrap around myself. Thought I couldn't produce the strength to carry such a heavy material. Thought I might drown in this ocean of nothing. Thought psalv-muron was going to cast a final curse to devastate any grip I could place. Still, by divine grace, the finality of tragedy took its exit, not tragedy though, just the unanswered questions those philosophers so eloquently composed.

I can burn that house I called my planet now. I called it Ringo, but really it was just a dirty temple to selected favorite idols I liked to subscribe to. I can watch the fire consume it, in complete holy wrath, in complete holy jealously, for all those years I was succumbed to idols of addiction, self-denial and self-blasphemy (the years  where I said that there was no love). I will smile when I see its structures finally collapse, knowing there is no way back.



You and I can walk away, with that six-story spirit, or seven or eight, depending on where we are then. Either way, we will be totally and completely in love.

I don't think that those two questions I posed will matter then. Or even exist.

Rather, reverence.

Quam Gloria, Hallelujah!

Past the spectacles galore, I come to your throne to adore the meer manger and swim under your living currents away from from these lawless waters. I want to simmer under the heat of your quiet glory. I want to embrace you and BURN DEEP DOWN, all these carcinogens I found, I keep bringing them around. Bells ring, and I have learned to rise this week, but I don't know where the time will go and I fear what I have already known, although I cognitively know I am now

More than dust. More than a mourner. More than just a scorner, scorning all the things that happened in that seamless house of unseemly men. We acted as cowards despite eternal weight of relationships. I hid behind the cushions, you know, where we would stash our trash. I hid amongst the trash, for fear of where the time might go. Feared it might be predestined to be blown away, cause the Joy of life seemed to be light and fluffy, but I felt the burden constantly and indefinitely.

I wonder about you Brother-King, as I find you to be more consistent than the pain, how consistent was your pain? How constant was that weight? Did you feel the heaviness of the brokenness of this universe when you were first born? How did you not cry?
How come you were the only child not to cry, I would think your tears would your first reaction to how dismal a place we left for the HIGHEST GRACE. The lack of maneuverability in your fate.

JESUS. WHAT KIND OF EYES DID YOU SEE FROM?

As sin entered through your ribs, as our idolatry of murder spilled into your innocence as you became that which you were destined to abolish.YOU WERE BORN AMONG THE GENOCIDE OF CHILDREN.

You must be able to see something I can't father. Within merely the guilt I am capsized and return to filth  What Joy resides within you to call me out of this? Where resides this registry of hope to keep my heart sustained? How gentle you are, as you wipe down my feet, with your hair. My Jesus.

You watch me as I attempt to worship you, I fumble upon arrogance and pride and narcissism and vanity and lust. And self hate. I feel disingenuous to core. But God you are so good.

Quam Gloria.
Quam Gloria.
Quam Gloria.
Hallelujah.

Everything

There is no glory here. Its like groundhog day, the record is turning, but the song is going nowhere. There is no glamour in a drunken romance. Its there, always there, always reminding you that you are breaking her heart before you even know her. Some romance this is.

But a grand romance is still here.
I lie to myself, about you. I drop my faith by the doorside, and I crawl into bed with my enemy. Where is the glory I can't see? Its in your jealous tears. Its in those groans to deep for words. Its the way you will calm my unsettled skin after I've let the cancer take its place. I traded love for addiction. You traded your life for me. You traded everything

for me.
Cause you're madly in love with me. Not obsessed, not dependent, and never apathetic.

You are of a different kind. I am worse than the lepers, my heart more sick than the pharisees. STILL, after contortion upon contortion, session after session of me hurling stones at your temple, you are steady from the throne, you keep the tide away from my feet, so that I am not swept away by shame. It took you everything to atone for my failures, and even upon death, you never let me go. Still I stone you.

I would blame it on my hands, on my dead flesh, I would turn to masochism, take out my eyes, but you wrote the truth upon my tongue and your wisdom upon my lips. And at nine every night, rises a Steadfast Seabear, speaks order into the air. Out by the shore, he beckons my hands to paint those castles and  cathedrals from within this cavern old. He and White Grizzly speak about one cavern in particular. I look upon it often, and my quiet prayers become violent cries of desperation. Our knuckles are throbbing, as our hearts are turning. Its the inconsistency eating at our bones. Their groans align with mine. The cavern is a wilderness where honesty lay, where we are genuine men. Truth is, thats a part of me. Hypocrisy is finite and closed.

And stones lay at his feet, and broken he stands with a crown in his hand. Among the wild depths within my soul, he remains scarred and oft, still in pain. By and by, I will never wear out his name, and I swear upon time and faith, that the day will come when our hearts beat the same. A day you traded for everything.

Reality of my weakness

If your out at the right time, you might catch me slinging sparks
Out here in the desert. That's just my way of wishing the night away. I really just want to draw in chalk in front of you doorway. To line your bedroom with salt to keep those darker things away from you. Those gates won't prevail, I swear it to be true, though the thought creeps into my mind often; you laying down to die, your breath finite and cool, and my petition remains irresolute.

On still, within the account of my inconsistencies, lies fear for your heart. A great lack of faith about the healing of those family wounds.

Despite the promises made to me. Promises made in red
I saw it again today, passing by in my tradition, in the repetition, he lied counter-current to the day by day routine that I settle for.
STILL HERE are those waters I am engulfed in;
of lies
medicine
and self-discovery? - indulgence in the damage that took a hold of me when he took a hold of you. Thought time would iron out those wrinkles but I haven't spoken to my own Blue-Birthking in months, that blue just seems to have turned gray.
Thought time would conquer that departure,
thought wisdom would be heard and understanding would have her voice heard because
I thought I was a greater being having stood upon my enemy,

Seems that's not the case. 

Seems to be a tease in the reality of my weakness

And thats where I'm at.

I'm asking my heart whether I can depend on it to surrender. Conviction won't roll off my mind, understanding has made her home here, and I know, I've heard her from within the whale. 

Just stand still the voice says, just take my hand and remember the seasons that came before

Before you tell me where my promises will land and how the naive will raise their hands

The peak of truth is my promises to you. Thats the reality of your weakness.

And there lies the mustard seed and there lies the mountain. 

Crowns Upon Temples

Today was different. This past two weeks have been different. Sure, sore red eyes undercoated with purple weight all the same. I've had my legs locked up on staircases, and I've been deep blue in the foreign current. I still tumble upon disbelief.

His words, run thick through my blood. Upon the pounding of my heart weighs a sword of great spirit. The gravity of the Son is to grand to flee from. Such great dishonor I brought upon myself when I fought for falsehood and such sorrow when I held my hands over my eyes to avoid such beautiful light. But my eyes are shining in the morning light, and while my voice is still gruff, my aim is beauty and true. Still and still I am finding another cavern to crawl into, and another city to be illuminated and to adore.

You ask me what these cities are, at what depth have I traveled within my soul, by what roads have I journeyed here?

This is love, to die for ones friends.

You and I can see that the our purpose in this life is to love each other. When we were dying and decaying, that's what we held onto. Now that love brought us back from those depths, we live in its vibrancy. We live in these temples, at its command, centered around its propositions and decrees. This is what law I serve. This is the rules that I follow. Mind you, I understand the passion for anarchy, to up-throw tyranny, but I will always serve what is good. I will not live for myself. That is true tyranny at its finest. To serve a finite evil, whether it be your flesh or the demons one follows.

So I find myself here, in the purest relationship I have. My dear sister. You inspire me anew. The one girl I can swear to protect and serve. Youthful and naive, the dust doesn't have to settle in our footsteps. Power and authority can break new breath upon these grounds. These walls are being raised, and that wolf of the world has scheduled demolition.

So I will have my war with the wolf.

He will see what the Word is manifest. There is a call for those who know his voice. To take up torch and speak new life into the ashen nature. We are without excuse to give up, to not take up agreement and concordance with the breathtaking spirit of love. He is resounding in his decree, THE KINGDOM OF HEAVEN SHALL NOT FALL. In grace our glorified bodies will rest and we will know the truth of those words. For now, we hold onto the lamb who was slain in verification during the wrestles of doubt and hopelessness. We will wrestle anointed.

We are anointed to bring good news to the poor. So that love might be glorified. So that he might be glorified. We are temples to take stand in light and be illuminated in glory of the insurgence of the love of MY BROTHER-KING!
Meteorites will fall. Weary hands will rise towards heaven and exclaim,

I AM FREE!

OH DEAR GOD I AM FREE FROM THIS CANCEROUS CURSE!

I am free by grace.

Selah.

Weary hands shall meet and bonds will be formed from weary days heavy-ladened in warm adoration of truth. Of Clarity. And set in clarity they shall find what I have found. There are deeper reserves made for memories not to be forgotten. Deeper reserves made to hold love within us. Fruits of faith and joy and endurance and self-control to be had in those temple-gardens. Bread is to be broken in your walls my sister. As I have had faith, in the healing hand of Brother-King, so shall you. By his grace he will take your iniquities my sister, as he has mine.

I watch you in eagerness. Find him. Cry out.

Submit to the truth my dear, how grand, how holy is he.

Meteorites in the night.

Remember the scent of autumn before the blood slipped into our beds? When you and I were cruising in the oldsmobile singing our hearts out, curving our hands along the currents. Did we notice the doors closing behind us, or were we to preoccupied by youthful idealism?

I don't know friend. Karma tells me nothing about the future's history, guess grace has her eyes on me. I can't say I'm prophet, but when grace comes close, roads once hidden in shadows are illuminated. She is a shimmering knight, she shimmers and she glows. I am in mad love with her. Guess I am young again. It's like all those shining stars are coming back again. The dark sky is full of light. I am anticipating arrival.
I wonder now if you and blackbird could sing sweetly again for me. You're both grown, gone off to foreign lands, gone into your own battles. Don't think that I ever forget about you kids.

I don't ever forget about you kids.
Don't trip up, cause here it comes. I've been brewing a warm wind, to come and bring some comfort to your cold bones. One, that maybe blackbird could fly along. One that maybe you could put that singing voice back in your lungs. I still dream of a day I see you two cry in sober-hope. Meet me there, thats where I stand. I've learned to be quiet and wait.

It's only a matter of time before you two fall in love with him again.

I know, because I can't stop. I can't but return to those golden pastures where he captivated my heart for the first time. Where his waters started flowing, gushing from within my soul. What a sweet and lovely sound living water is! Cleansed by blood, what a miracle it is to see the abundance and fullness and depth of life I find within my soul!

Such an outstanding contrast to the dark waters I lived in! How tragically broken my heart was, but as a youth in passion, in the frustration and the torment...

as I wrestled in those sheets... I cried out
Bring these dry bones to life!

And I wondered if my life could really change. I wondered if the heart of my King truly yearned for HEALING for my broken heart, if he really desired love to RESTORE MY FAMILY.

If I would escape these addictions

I was bound by a stronghold.

Remember when we started off? Before all the walls went up, when we were just fleshy and vulnerable? When all our wounds were fresh and we didn't have the time to bite our tongues? When we thought romance could fill up our holes rather than burn up our innocence?

My friend, do you remember the fear in my heart?

I was scared that something was waiting around the corner for me. 

That I was on the verge meeting utter despair

That the end was soon.

That His promises weren't meant for me.

That who I was, wasn't good.

That I was just a liar and a user.

That I was the filth of the earth.

I thought that.

When things go really dark, and when I was filled with shame, thats what was in my heart.

Do you remember me crying on ellie's porch? It was because I saw the heart of the Lord. How much greater was his love for you kids, how beyond measure his love for you was! How I wept in fits because you could not see. The weight of my SWEET KING'S EMOTIONS!

How sweet they were. How lovely they were.

Last week

I went walking without my bat down some dark country road. 

I took off my shirt. I wasn't scared. I was full of dignity. I was full of courage. 

I sang out to him

FOR THE SAKE OF THE WORLD, PUT A FIRE IN ME

LIGHT A FLAME IN MY SOUL FOR EVERY EYE TO SEE

I admitted my fear to him, in courage, in humility. 

I confessed my shame. I poured upon my grief.

And in my confession, trouble stirred in brush. Standing there was a ghost enveloped in deceit. He was there to stop me from meeting my Holy Lover. I recognized my enemy, and by grace I prepared for him. I wrapped truth around my waist. As soon as I was bound by truth, My identity as Saved and Sacred encompassed my mind. I took out my trusty torch, the flame was blue and alive. Seeing that, with just a mustard seed, I began to defend myself. I would not let that ghost capture my heart.

I remembered that ancient text.

"...their faith is credited as righteousness"

-Romans 4:5

So I sung to my Lord

You are full of Mercy!

You are full of Grace!

You are full of Mercy and Grace!

As I sung that, I drew close to his heart. And I started praying for my brother. He showed me all the love he had put in my heart for my little bro. By the prayers of the punk-saints and my own blessed mother, the lord gave me the strength to speak to Jonathan in great love about all the darkness in our family. I wept at the feet of Jesus.

And then, a meteorite flew through the sky as a sign that my King was truly there. His holiness. His love, astounds me.

Remember those stars in my eyes?

They shine brighter than before. 

Who am I? At the core?

I am a child of God. A co-heir with Christ. I am a saint with which the power of the name of Jesus has been bestowed.

Was my suffering ever meaningless?

No, because Christ was always at my side.

My addiction?

Has no power over me. FOR CHRIST IS VICTORIOUS.

How can I but praise him! How can I but cry out in joy! I surely have faith that both you and blackbird shall meet my king. I look forward to the day.

The Old Iron Door

She is pressing into the old iron door, with all her might, and all her strength. Her heart swells up within, because time has taught her how to counter the will of her body, despite the weight, despite the exhaustion. Her arms are smaller than mine, but they are golden and radiant, and now they are swelling and red, because she is RESOLVED to open that door. She KNOWS what is behind it. She KNOWS the worth of true treasure. And she is breathing through her gut cause she has met these headaches before.

It wasn't long ago in fact when the scorpion's sting was still fresh on her fingers. She looked at him, as he blared the radio, entirely unawake. SHE was awake to what he did, and she leapt from his car, conscience of the consequences. All the scrapes and tears in her flesh, just to flee the tragedy she was tempted with. SHE WASN'T TERRIFIED OF BEING ALONE. But, her bones were fragile, like the rest of ours are. They were broken and split, and fortunately for her, she was okay, because Jesus would lift her from that crucifix.

No, she wasn't born of the garden of Eden, but her blood was of good mix. Her father did not lay curses upon her name and he loved his wife so. Her mother was a woman of discipline and truth, she could not be led astray into the sut, into those gutters intended for her.
Because of her parents, despite the brokenness of the world she was born in, Two Suns burned in her heart. Giant and hot, trustworthy and eternal, her words are theirs, for they modeled her like clay, with Jesus working through their hands.

Her hands are now here, and her knuckles are white. White light is leaking from this old iron door, shining on her ash covered face. Finally good faith rewarded.

Look at her, she is so much older now. Her body was so fragile when she leapt out of that car. She was so scared, so unsure. Now, the light that radiates from that door is consumed by the faith in her eyes. That light consumes all that she is.
I want to look into her eyes, I want to share in her vision, whoever she is. Oh that grand sight.

The crowns she lays at His feet.

The song He sings for her.

That Old Iron Door is opened.

Conversation with the King

Its down to him and I.  Its the dead of night and neither of us are going anywhere.
He is resolved and I am willing. I call out to him,

"You speak to me in poems and songs,
but what about in the rusting,
in my crumbling community?
When we make attempts at piety
we trip and fall over each other.
Sober-hope is dry on the weekends.
When we forget all the lessons on righteousness,
When we look at the dead and wonder where the mercy was for them.
What about them?"

I put my cigarette out on our wood porch, as I avoid looking him in the eye. I've been tripping on the confusion in exhaustion. I've been thinking upon the memories of dying enemies. They were just poor men with rich friends. Rich friends with poorer souls still, they wouldn't be quiet as they covered their hearts with concrete. They've been in my prayers, I've been calling for revival in those woods
Ya know,
where all those men gathered round their money and drugs, burning their souls with country music and incense. Those men, who are laying out there now, sick of the taste of regret in the back of their throats, the drugs deepen the taste but alleviate the disdain.
What can I say, I was raised in those woods. I laid claim to my vice, I've stumbled upon the starbitten history of our dead culture. Hell, you could journey to say, they besieged the cities in my soul, crawling up in those caverns to take and capitalize on lies and feminine lines.

"THAT WAS OUR HOME." His words shot through my soul.
You are a temple my son, one in which I reside. I am your conductor, you cannot run off residual energies. Your Art will end up hollow and empty. That is the consequence of Isolation. You could wrap up yourself in a cocoon but I will not leave you hanging on a limb waiting for you to emerge. You are neither a moth or a monarch, and that transformation will not suit you well my friend.

I said "WOAH, WHAT ARE YOU SPEAKING ABOUT JESUS? IF I AM ALONE IN THIS, IF MY COMMUNITY HAS TAKEN TO THE GROUND, AND I AM SLEEPING ALONE WITH THESE THOUGHTS IN MY HEAD, WHAT SAY YOU THEN?"

He says, You are no criminal, if thats what your thinking. You did wrong kid, yeah. But your community isn't dead and neither am I. They are well and breathing and speaking life into you. You gotta take that truth and wrap in round you tight. Cause, like it or not, I died for you kid. You're made for me, whether its a love you can see, or a time to cry out in need. Take what you have here and build a home son.


Your pride isn't worth speaking out fear.
This cage isn't worth missing the cities I built.

We sat quietly together for a while as I thought on what he said. I turned to look at him and he was standing up. He looked me in the eye and said,

Get some sleep. We'll slay those monsters in the morning.

Intimacy

I was his kid once. There were times where I felt, I was his right hand man, no man could usurp my position. The wolves could not, would not, dig there claws in. But as I grew older that turned out to be an illusion. I breathed in her blood, it was unclean and it was numbing to the touch. I don't know where it became unclean, whether it was actually me; but I knew she was not being redeemed. Despite what it seemed, I was pulling on her strings, it was MY FEAR that was manipulating her and me. I had become captured by distortion, my hands in a contortion, and any holiness left was neglected and headed to abortion. He said it was all dark, and his new girl said I'd lost that light. I cried "Father please, Could you be a little more quiet?". His anger was gone. He was nowhere in sight.

I wanted to tell him I was embarrassed, that I was ashamed. That there were demons forming, demons calling out my name. That my addiction was growing, that my integrity was collapsing, that I was scared my faith was perishing along with the little identity I had. We missed out on those promises held by our starry-eyed birthkings, but their crowns were cracked anyways; then they were disowned, and finally overthrown. Some of us found sages to keep hold of our secret stories, to hold them as sacred and secure, never to be sold. Others found the Lords of World, always keen and cunning and counting the new kid into his hurt demeanor, paving down the path of healing with the pleasures of stealing. Stealing, we would never see it as such, but as our eyes gaze back to the hollow glaze, we are evaluating the worth of everything we see and we are buying and selling, counting the common and the sacred on the values of worth we deem to have meaning. The convenience of a temporal truth.

Truth is relative right? At least consciously. But subconsciously I am taking her for free from my computer screen, when I know in my heart she might mean the world to me, if I only knew her. But I don't. I don't know her, and I never will, she is an image or a clip, she is the most intimate section snipped to fit my addiction.

It is an addiction I am sick of having. I am sick of being consumed with her genitalia instead of keeping my eyes on the road while I singing her "blue dahlia". I am sick of being part of the american sex trade, I was far too young, to be part of that grand objectification by our culture. I was a cog of our lust-conditioned culture. A slave to my eyes and my hands and to the same wolves that ate our daddy's heart. He wasn't coming home just from a hard day at work, nor was he leaving just to escape the ramblings of his incompetent child. It wasn't just his rage that was wild, it was his tears, as he wept in fits apologizing for things I didn't understand, as I anxiously forgave him, too frightened to see my father as a weak and broken man. Whatever passion was left went into the idols that gave him that glaze. The same glaze that covers my eyes.

I don't mean to be critical, but I will not brush it aside. Aside and aside it was hid, away from the light so that no one could peer into this disgusting heart of mine. I don't mean to be critical of you, honestly I do respect you, but these are my scars, and the wounds are getting infected constantly. I am trying to find meaning despite the seeping sickness plaguing me. And my flesh tells me its inherent, that it's part of my definition, that there is nowhere above this because I am as captive as you are to this identity.

If I close my eyes, and study the white-hooded flame-carrier, even in temptation, even in the sickness, I must recognize that there is something pulling me away from this. That I am not just convicted by repulsion, though repulsed I am. I am convicted to glance at gentler hands. That my hands are made to be gentler hands, that thats the deeper truth. That these bags under my eyes, won't cross into the divine threshold, but my soul will be kept trudging through eternities wake. That my nature exist for intimacy, not just to take on some pseudo-spiritual legalism, but to break reigns of backseat "love" for pursuit of sober-eyed truth-love. Idealistic, I know, but if the King reign like I say he do, I can keep these sweet sweet lovesongs, the ones I wrote as a child to be true.

Before it all set in. When my nature was handpicked to spin her round. To settle down.
To see the glee of children singing with her, to shout those hymns with her in happy tears.
Whoever, wherever she is.

I think I could rise above, I think I could be intimate. I think I could bring myself in. This culture is so hollow, leading children into a void. But I am not hollow, I am wholy whole. I am whole without another soul. My steps carry weight, not on their own, but this body is not its own. I recognize that. I share this temple intimately. I have faith in it's foundations, in its dedication. Doesn't matter what comes through my gates, those wolves should fear what resides inside. What resides here has been planted, and the roots are more than steel beams, not to be uprooted by these horrible half-dreams. Not to be usurped by geneology. For The Father is a Grand King.

I believe theres more for me. I believe in Intimacy.


Here's a spotify link for the Song Blue Dahlia I was referring to earlier.
If you dont have spotify, get it, its free.
The Gaslight Anthem – Blue Dahlia