Poetry
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Becoming None
Maybe the only true society is personal –
holding out
for the benefit of self alone
the credulity of goodness.
A union of spirits: one, as he is one,
then one together.
At vision’s outset
peers the fear of fate, not faith, which saves;
the dream no more destined for experience
than for relating:
lying across this destitute autumn a-languishing.
Who am I,
and why a stranger,
and what appropriates a soul
to become equal with God?
Let Christ be displayed;
let it no more to be imagined
the purported provisions to accomplishment.
Let caution flare – as a precaution to lit divisiveness.
When striking and leaking volatile sin,
suffering afterward these pinned conservative feet,
within this wreck …
lie closer to extinction than eternity.
It is a concession toward unity
that vanity must make
in tribute to the Master.
For seasons growing yet coming have I,
but upon whose neck
the head must first be planted
before the crown.
Left Behind
Left to lie in composts of unsettling truths …
it is not so much that I have mis-taken the sacred ground,
I have also lost the shovel –
shan’t even be missing them,
these treasures of long-buried dedication.
So many things unrecorded,
ostensibly left to less frantic times;
now to shudder at the shutting of windows,
glorious passages breaking –
along with all the other enlightenments
I once thought mathematically bonded, glorious,
and altogether beautifully fit for framing.
With only one lamp of reasoning remaining:
who shall see through to me
when the last and broken closes.
Sad Job
Ad lib the make-shift walk;
kineosis, overturning, frustration.
Is it not because there is no God inside,
have you no god to call upon?
I shall conduct a Satanic task,
and take thee down into a salt mine,
perhaps to be raised up in a day –
perhaps in a Lord’s day.
Know then to suffer
what you must suffer to know,
regardless the contradiction.
Last Days
Mind,
an eye,
ill, going blind;
a collection of thought tools
restrictive of framework like an out-of-bounds stage.
A play begun in fallowness, with persistence to learn –
spiritless now.
Watch the leaves of colored reason fall
from this would-be crossing of November fate
into another coming winter.
All these contradictions to self.
Dr. Walter Boswell
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