Searching for a piece of solid ground

on which to make a stand

finding only slippery clay, cold wet shifting sand

nothing stable, untainted, pure

Everything corrupted

My own fine clothes exposed as rags

when the truth brutally interrupted!

 

Constantly falling into the abyss

outside space-time dimension

no beginning, end, finish, start

or realistic comprehension

 

Hating this so-fallen self

that no longer walks amongst the angels

my pitiful deluded self, against my soul it rages

hands and face like melting wax

dripping on to the keys of a pianola

Its constant tune plays sorrow’s song

as I yearn for paradise tomorrow

 

Still the parasites, the leeches

continue sucking at my core

the man I aspire to be

a mirage in this war

I see him in holographic dreams

awaking in sweat and terror!

 

The morning tormentors return once again

Pointing out my faults, my errors

Kept for perverse security

like two old cats about the place

my only fear of drowning

In God’s eternal lake of Grace….

 

 

M.C. Bolton, January 2018