***
i give thanks for these breaths
i draw in to fill lungs
inside respiration becomes
desperation
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
fists
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
redemption
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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