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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