Poetry

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Being here through a Command,
   growing up with a callous rage,
      being here with an empty hand,
         starving within Satan’s cage.
I am here, I am now,
   product of the man before me.
It’s to false gods I have bowed,
   with no hope that I could see.
 
Wallowing in an endless mud,
   unable to see beyond myself.
I carry within a satanic grudge,
   I’ll never be my own help.
Can’t look up, much less beyond,
   all I see is where I sit.
I barely hear a higher Song,
   written by a higher Wit.
 
I drink the mud; it’s all I have,
   for I can’t look up.
Anything better would make me glad,
   even from a paper cup.
 
Sick of my state, and for the Song,
   I speak my words into the air.
Myself pours forth, with all my wrong,
   not knowing I’ve said a prayer.
 
In spite of me, yet maybe for,
   coming to me, though I am dead,
      a cleaner hand, that of the Lord,
         takes my chin and lifts my head.
 
Reborn here through a Command,
   growing before a loving Face,
      Hope is here, holding my hand,
         feeding me with divine Grace.
I am here, I am now,
   product of the Father before me.
To this God I have bowed,
   with more Hope than I could see.
 
© 3-26-10
 
 A different take on things mentioned in 'Folding In', a song posted earlier on this site.
 
 
 

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