Could you not have watched with me, also,
sometime during my century-long night?
Is the Lord
the only being
on time and concern?
Is He the only sensing one,
the only hurting one,
the only one to have sweated
the strains of blood?
Though never a hand;
though never a face of disquiet or engagement –
whose love stems from nothing –
while an abortion tolls silently and bloodily
within the womb of my soul.
By this entry into harbor,
lighting fiery planks to bogus faith,
marking the tides with buoyant floats,
searching through sands with iron implements –
for a few trinkets of gracious buried gold;
scanning the horizon for blanched sails,
‘scoping for pennants of cross and bones,
testing all mastheads for divine impressions –
should they earn him wings and blessing
of sacred deliverance,
by this survival entry into harbor,
and he lives.
Mealtime is come
to sliced flesh, burned brain, and melted body –
the spiritual dinner of a personal holocaust.
Someone set the clock to self rewind!
I die to know who God is:
what seizure of face has arched
the ticking hands of God’s time;
what rusty spring barely churns his coiled heart,
unalarmed and undilated to my mercy chime.
trying to fold back self
in a reaction to reason;
remanded to remain,
resigned to re-sin.
Like Grace … weeping,
I stretch the seams of mercy
to their tearing point.
Streak away hard, you mis-clad runner,
picking and gathering darkness
as you go.
Pray tell, afterwards,
posing safe in closeted faith,
why, o why, you run –
if health be not in your resume’?
Dr. Walter Boswell