Confessional, #129

Ten years I have sat,
and through the mesh
of my vocation, listened
to the dark heart of man
ringing out like a sick bell
from atop the towers
and crumbling pillars
of our temptations.
I have seen the best
among us whittled
down to toothpicks,
their exterior facade
crumbled into the crust
and grist of this living,
their once innocence
laid open on a slab
and carved into cubes
to be sauteed
at the feet of false,
rich deities,
begging forgiveness.

Ten years, to the day.

The false righteous
who trade piety
for votes would have
me say it was the devil
of fantasy, the seduction
of painted women
on giant screens
or the easy access
to every sinners
delight through the net.
The fake lay scholar
would blame it too
on culture, white culture,
wealthy white culture
for minimizing the value
of man to a dollar sign
and sometimes a cent,
would blame it on
the false righteous
who pray only
to corporate earnings.

On Sundays, I see
on the faces in the pews,
the seven deadly sins
of each sinner
whispered into my ears
across the mess
of our fleshy existence.
In my fabric cell
I have watched sleep
turn to sloth, love
to lust, and thought
perhaps that Blake,
on his road of excess,
may have been correct
to imagine the horror
man breeds, perfectly
made in God’s image,
lonely from God’s image,
compensating so
that he too may own,
at least, a palace.

Ten years to the day.

I have come to know
every secret one
can imagine,
every death and kiss
and now, am never stunned
at the distance some
will travel, at the mirror
length of the cross
one will bear, exact
in its width and height
to the tunnel bore
beneath our pierced feet
to cross the distance
between our own
self and our own
self loathing. God
was never that far
and the struggle
only further divorces
the long divergent roads
from the soles of our feet.

I have heard
countless hail Marys
and endless Our Fathers,
and in the end wonder
what value the mouth
and what quality the lips,
what power have words
in their bubbling up,
if from the rote learning
of our pity no drop
of blood flows from
the heart’s chambers
out to the limbs,
to the feet and the fingers
that carry and reveal
us, the eyes that ask
the mind to create
some scenario
where this betrayal
could be justified
in God’s eyes.

Ten long years to the day.

I sit here and ask who
will come in the second
coming, to cleanse
these soiled robes,
to unfold the creases
of what I have been told
and henceforth,
what I too have imagined,
to lay soapy hands
on the sides of my face
and wash these waxed
confessions away
from my forever
tainted ears,
will the Son come
down and offer,
or command me
to wash from myself
the darkness that bleeds
into my own heart?
Am I this savior?

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A day is not done, until it's filled with words.

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