Like a string of crimson pearls
Crushed crimson petals in water
And you enjoyed the sight
The slight sting seemed fitting
To match the stinging in your soul
And you closed your eyes to listen
As your spirit crumbled to dust
How sad that life makes no more sense in the daylight
Than it does at night
In some ways, less
For how could the sun shine and the birds sing happily
When something, or someone, has died?
Part of you has died...
And all you can do is mourn
Though you cannot weep
Your tears are dry and of no comfort to you
Why joy in the string of pearls as it burns ruby and real?
It is a mark that means that you are alive and real
Even though feeling quite dead
Devoid of humanity, and certainly of any ill-disguised spark of divinity
How could anyone see beauty in a stuffed patchwork doll
Long ago forgotten in the ash heap
But You did not forget her soul...
That You could not
But she is too weak to learn Your lessons
Too broken to be remade
Too confused to always know the difference between light and dark
And too desperate to hear Your voice when she cries for You
Reaching out for the only life-line available
Temporary and flimsy as it is
It brings only further pain after.
Pains of conscience
Because of how dearly she loves You
And how completely she cannot escape You
She does not really want to escape from You
Just from this walking nightmare
As the trail of pearls begins to sting in earnest
What is it you would have Him do?
Send down lightning from the sky to make this storm
Feel more fierce and loud outside
Than it truly is inside?
Would you have him send a spring rain
To help the bitter tonic wash down more cleanly?
Would it be right, would it be worth it, were it easy?
...
A question you cannot answer...
You foolish, foolish child
Who cannot know what she wants or truly needs
But wants and needs for something He promised to give
That she cannot see or find
Closing down to the beauty of the day, of the light, the sun and the winds
She hears only the birds, whose normally melodious music
Has now become cacophonous and discordant
Yet they still fly...
Even through their pain
How she longs to be rid of this sickness, this vile disease
Be free of its foul clutches
And free to allow the sunlight in again
To wipe this despair from her soul.
What would you say to her now
Oh mightiest of mighties whom she adores?
To trust?
To forgive? Others more than herself, or herself more than others?
How would you explain this state
How would you ease her pain, and make things right again?
Your purging may hurt more than the guilt itself
And the guilt tears and destroys all that has been created
Glancing over you are annoyed
By the birds clueless laughter
It says nothing to you, except that you are amusing
You are a temporary joke
To the black-bird, perhaps also to yourself...
So what's to do with you?
Are you to sit and wallow, to lose yourself once again
Give no hope to redemption?
Or perhaps... perhaps just to walk with no destination in mind...
In a never-ending circle with no end
And no course or purpose that you've ever been able to find
A self-proclaimed butterfly hopelessly tangled in her own net.
You've lost your own game.
Saturday, April 10th, 2010
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