Heart beaten, stretched thin, oppressed
Heart shaking with fear, anger, and pain Heart rattled by self choices and actions of neighbors unloving Heart shed that tough skin and breathe Heart sweat out the binding toxins Heart retch and spit out disease Heart bleed out dead blood, totally, every cursed drop Heart whelm in water pure and whole Heart beat anew with sacred blood Heart choose vulnerable, sweet life Heart sing steady and clear about this resurrection Heart let the Spirit dwell strong inside Heart brace for struggle Heart pray for peace Heart dance to the battle drums For the victory Heart the victory comes with the King Oh clouded soul, storm
and let the shame be poured from you. Crack and thunder and empty yourself of that dead water. Dead water, dead weight, the curse you accept because it is self-indulgent. All too tempting to take up shame, and self-pity and bitterness - shame's unfriendly entourage. But the dead water never can satisfy. It will bloat you and leave you dry, swollen with lies and chains and hate. So storm, clouded soul, and be rid of it. Let the spirited winds and the pressure of absolute grace crush you until you are clear and free. The lightning will burn, but it is needed. Only light can purify. You must give up your shadows, and cease collecting dead thoughts. Storm, let the dead water fall, and do not take it up again. Instead, seek living water to fill you. Oh freed soul, seek to be one with the wind, the breath, that draws you into the piercing radiant light. "Truth! Truth! Give us truth!"
Is what we say, but where do we look: to the world? For affirmation we cling to half-truths and broad faced lies, But they're empty, we find, No help. No help at all. But even obvious falsehoods seem less frightening than seeking real answers. Because truth requires real effort and death. It requires a humbling, tumbling, and crumbling of all we call self. To dust we must go, Utterly stripped of pride. Only after this self is dead and buried can life be breathed into it anew. Growth is necessary for life, Growing pains-- inevitable. We find, at first, we can't quite stand on our own. Our zeal for life and works won't support us more than an instant. We fall hard, we're shaken. We have to learn dependence. We have to learn to listen, discern, And obey. We have to trust. We have to be wary of the dust Of our old selves reaching out To blind us and coat our mouths With unclean, gritty nonsense. Yes wary, but not fearful. Dust is no match for the eternal well-spring offered to us. Reviving, renewing, refreshing water of life. Twitching with potential,
Eager as a playful pup, The watched pots of artists come to a rapid boil And then pssst pop and putter into gas. The Muses whisper, They don't linger, Such weary work, to knead ideas and forms, Unpracticed artists with arms crossed detest. Dentists' work, This yanking at bone, Pulling to get underneath - sans anesthesia, For numbed work makes dull art indeed. Squirm little writer, Scream young heart, To know the pain of unrealized creation Is to grieve with the shepherd when the goats depart. |
AuthorI write to process. I write to explore. I write with the hope of sharing truth greater than my own. Archives
February 2022
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