Poetry

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I am fixated on the way I was created, a flesh that can be cremated while on the inside, a soul armor plated. I am protected by a God who compensated for my mistakes that should leave me hated; instead I'm loved and feel no longer intimidated. We walk on crooked avenues in search for the truth, making calls for help from the wrong phone booth, afraid of what we might lose. Our identities were made bulletproof, with crimson grace infused. Still we live as misguided youth trying to walk in someone else’s shoes. The Painter of the universe and sky waits on the paint to dry, painting His masterpiece of no regret, slowly coating the layers of perfection inside your broken silhouette. You might think yourself to be hollow; you might be drowning in sorrow at a crossroad not knowing which road to follow. There is only one way to be saved; only one road that is paved, only one way the crimson grace can fall upon your face. Turn away from Yesterday focus your eyes on Heaven's gates, believe in the Lamb that was slain, bow your head and wait for rain. As the first raindrop falls on your face you'll be cleansed by the crimson grace and the weight of Yesterday will be washed away. When your knees hit the floor, it will start to pour. At that moment your flesh will be cremated, your soul armor plated, you will be extricated from the illusions that fear created. Knowing this, what will you say, the day you stand facing the grave? Would you have taken the road of a slave to humanity, or the one of a prince with authority, who did not fall to sin with the tempted majority?

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