Although really a prayer it is done in poetic fashion, not unlike the Psalms…just lesser.


Lord, a heart lies in anguish’d ruins,

haunt of those whose boots are stuffed full

of the detritus found only on lonely hillsides

and mucky marshes.


There is no comfort in comfort;

comfort itself is a mockery, a shadow.

My soul is o’er grown with the sadness of sin,

untimely and magnetic North to this sorry South.


Finding is, to me, just another losing

of what was never found, nor seen;

the secondary reality of a desert’s shimmering heat

rising above an already parched, dead land.


Beasts of memory and regret feed

on the bowels of my discontent,

and I am emptied, disavowed of what might

otherwise provide hints of hope, of life.


The heartsickness of a harrowed soul

is its own reward to the one who is lost;

wretched reminder of yesterday’s loss by

the infected, troubled mind.


Is there to be yet a…

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2 thoughts on “

  1. Rob, I’m always amazed at the breadth of your writing. Humor, angst, yearning, mercy and joy are present and sometimes, excuse me, interwoven! This lament reminds me of the cleansing that starts when our prayer of complaint reaches the kind ear of God.

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