the pulpit

we sit before this avenue of eternity,
eagerly waiting
for the whispers of salvation,
the feast that angels bring
for us today.

the outside noise grows dim,
the world shut out,
and in the solitude,
the dews of the heavens distil
upon our parched and thirsty souls.

upon this altar we bring
wounds and aches in want of balm,
and humbly we supplicate,
we listen,
and are soothed…

and having worshipped, the final amen
is pronounced,
and we rise, filled and healed.

-sep 2007, written one sunday after services, or maybe during…

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The Lost

This is my message to the world
who would not listen to my pleas;
this is the last surrender of the will,
before the drowning in the seas.

I cannot think of any else,
for pain drowns thought, and wracks the mind,
the trembling would not stop nor pause,
I wish the final sleep that binds.

I wish for silence, and for peace,
for I’ve been broken past recall.
i look before me, but the path –
there is no path i see at all!

I stand with cut and bleeding feet,
i cannot take another stride;
i did not wish these wounds that bleed,
But here they are, and they abide.

I wish for time to heal this soul
that now i fear might heal no more,
and so i turn back from the world
that did the deed, from skin to core.

There are no rhymes to write again,
the poet’s gone and run away;
there are no songs, and no more lays,
the minstrel’s left and would not stay.

I drag these fingers and this pen,
one last preamble must be left
to tell the tale of this lost soul:
pathetic fool, scarred and bereft.

There is a point of no return
beyond which none may be reclaimed;
today i’ve reached that place, and yet
i hesitate, and lay no claim.

I stare across this dark abyss,
one fall to end a lifetime’s pain;
i wait redemption, but that is
a fruitless wait and with no gain.

I’ve cried enough, i’ve tears no more,
no voice, no strength, no courage here.
i take one look back, and with a sigh,
i plunge fore’er, and disappear.

–undated, probably around 2006, when i was in the pit of despair.