yesterday is dead and laid in the ground and today is soon to follow


i give thanks for these breaths

i draw in to fill lungs

inside respiration becomes


and breaths on the way out

(take with them only filth)

spew out sandpaper flowers, acid puppies


i give thanks for these feet

perambulating daily

along the path one or both make

a turn

lead me to darkened alleys

(take with them my body)

i ride rusted boats a-sail in rusted seas


i give thanks for these hands

which write with delicate caress

open fingers take shelter become


pound down on coffee tables

(take anything they can grasp)

and forcefully guide anarchic orchestras


i give thanks for this mind

it dreams up lofty tales

and plots character deaths but not


dwell on dank and dirt and

(take everything as nails)

churn out lugubrious wisdom and termite trees


i give thanks for a Redeemer

takes from me all these gifts

which i have burned and scorched

gives them back polished

useable, corruptible again

this time will be different

(wish it were true)


I had planted you like a choice vine of sound and reliable stock. How then did you turn against me into a corrupt, wild vine?  – Jeremiah  2 : 21


Author’s note: This is a terrible poem, frankly, but i post it anyway because it is appropriate. i have the anti-Midas touch. We all, as humans, do, when everything we touch turns to dust. i have no problem posting a very poorly written poem because i am not attempting to showcase my skills here but rather showcase my brokenness. Generally speaking, that is more effective in reaching hearts anyway. Love to all.


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