Traces – Poem


Traces of me are in the sins that I fall into,
parts of me gloriously revealed in the tragedy of sin.
I am a mess of epic proportions.
My sins are the gloomy streets leading to perdition.
My sins are the dark dungeons of cursed apartments,
neglected, and deeply unmoving,
I am wasting time,
I am losing sight of God,
it’s not easy to pack God offered salvation into the life of a dreamer seeing more, feeling more and broken more,
addicted to pleasure but fighting minute by minute to overcome it, addicted to control because of the constant everyday rejection…but seeking a mythical release of power.
My knees hurt from kneeling, I am sick and tired from all the spiritual hurting,
You can erase all the mistakes, be forgiven by God of all the darkness, but there is a price to pay for all the reckless indulging. Sin corrupts your soul and wrecks your call, pushes away your blessings and creates immense separation from God.
But there is hope for me yet, I am not yet dead and gone,
an inner voice calls, to repent, to start afresh and to overcome,
behold, the voice of my Savior, unmoved by my tragic sins,
concerned solely in delivering me from their evil intentions,
Lo, Lord, here I come.


The Silken Carpet of the Dark


The night is when I am truly alive,
I find myself speaking to ghosts from memories past,
conversing with dreams and hope,
longing deep and more,
The night is what I am made of.
I speak often to God,
sinking slow into the billions of atomic shores
that are not enough to capture his infinite, unfathomable
I pick apart each thought,
the heart is no longer a maddening
series of shocks, reactions and preoccupations.
The weight of the world has eased off my heart,
I lose myself in the furthest stars,
whose crinkling glows pierces my own heart.
I act deranged, trying to stuff all the empty silence into
the inward chambers of my heart… I long to inject them
whenever I weep for Freedom when the ambulance sirens return
in the hot and dusty mornings,
when the difficult, self worshipping egos cloaked in
religious righteousness return and clamor for obsessive attention,
when the sickness, the poverty and the inability of my own
brokenness returns and I see myself with hatred and sadness…,
Tell me how I can fit the architectural depth of the uncommon peace
that the night offers into my Dreamer’s starry, murky, unspoken heart.
The night is when I truly desire to live,
the day is but a labyrinth for me to maneouver through.
I am clueless and lost, who are all these strangers..?
Why can’t I remember their faces..?
Who will remember me..? Who can look past my mask..?
When will God appear to me…?

– The Poet of the Unseen