Poetry

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Every soul resides transfixed,
with a thirst so fierce and desperate.
It's hole, it seeks to fill; the task is
is perilous and daunting. Final
choices, often, release into a
dark plummit.

What gains have we, that search
with destiny, to give up ourselves
to false rendering?

We merge, spite pain,
to find completeness with empty
fantasizing. As if to supress the
notion toward our ever present
wandering or actual need of a Higher
governing.

Our yearning nare gives way to
leaning, nor do we regard our
attempts as futile. We futher
continue this habitual dance
without a partner who knows
the steps.

With sad lust we
fall and become servile
Because we're desperate to
find love, we are willing to regard
it as a lesser thing. We fail always
when comparison is fixed with God's
over consuming love.

By ourselves, thirst's passion will
never be ripped away. By God's
hand, we will more than know
that we are full and that His Love
will always stay.


(((JMF)))

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