taken by the whims of the world. by revelry and birthed bad habits. like ugly babies we found and held as if they were our own. we eyeballed each other in the dark alleyways of narrow thought. of hopelessness. on the path I took farther away from the preexisting severed Spirit of divinity. I was mostly formless then. and stuffed this stepchild down my dress. fused it with the breaking bone. sending out doomed synapses to the Spirit. wept and watered till it grew to something. anything at all. what can I make that is mine, I thought. it continues to crave those actions. begs for my breaking body. empties all the cupboards and drawers. of any Larger living. baby feeds me bad breast milk. baby barks out orders. until I'm all emptied out and hollow. everything resonates so loudly, everything gets so damn loud I can hardly hear myself think. this is what I have cultivated and clothed. being wrought in all my most silent moments. this is my form of creation. making it so i can't listen to know where to go from here.
but there became differentiated breaking. the flesh can break itself. and just as much as i shudder to tell myself it isn't cold, I cannot seem to convince the Spirit.
It quakes.
bleeds for Better Love. And breaks by Holy Blood. I have asked, Where is the Master? And I am not it. I don't bless myself ever. I am lazy heart and wanting wanting. I am always the back door of reason. and I don't know shit.
pray for me as a Father. as a Farmer. am I not discouraged? am I not always almost half way there? but forever moving forward. I ache at dislocation. fear the body's malfunction. do doves still coo for me? does the day break on my behalf? my greatest disappointment is no wonder. nor is my eternal enchantment. the magnitude of not myself. there is yet glory and grace in the wilderness. there is the Love letter of day. the soft kiss of sleep. and Everything in between that is not me. this is me. that is You.
I am not home but here. and waiting. learning to not feel this way.
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