The rain pours as if it weeps for me, for what I've permitted, for what I've forgotten.
This, my stewardship, hasn't its anchor, nothing to stay the rage, the emptiness, save for nature’s wrath.
O! I coveted fulfillment, the heaving shell- a use no longer ready, the weight too great to fathom, the deceit, an unvoiced iceberg breaching the covenant with myself!
I'll have blame to spread like manure over the shame of capsized Love, as goodness takes in its last lungful like a first-rate captain sinking into the void.
(It is written that Jesus was the son of man, so the proclaimer became the proclaimed.)
Am I too not the son of man, aren't we all the sons and daughters of man, cousins of the original seed, brothers and sisters, those who will soon seethe of a mutated fortune?
As a steward of Heaven I've drained all use from truth, from Love, from joy, pilfered from my very hands. Soon I'll congregate in a cave like bats and plead that life lift my confusion and ache like children rebuked by a nameless maker.
I know little and own nothing…
© 2011 by mark prime
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