Poetry

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Bloated, inflated the view of self,
   lusting for the throne of God. 
In a bed of lies it seeks no help. 
An empty soul is its lot. 
There is no low self-esteem here, 
   esteeming self over all.  
Simply seeking its own cheer, 
   the needs of others seem less than small.
All it sees is its own heart
   that its heart feels very lonely. 
For this reason it can't impart
   humble things, considered homely.
For itself it claims power
   as if it came from self. 
Uses that power for its own hour, 
   leaving others in death's knell.
When it sorrows it runs and hides,
   even from its very breath. 
To save its ego it will fly 
   straight onto the mouth of death.
Even then it will blaspheme 
   from the day it fell. 
On its knees its forced to claim
   Jesus as Lord in the heart of hell.

© 2-7-10   

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