It's a collision. Constant, and moving. infinite and finite, ebbed and unchanging, unholy and divine.

You are worthy.

Holy.

as opposed to.

I am on a trajectory, something has started in me, that I cannot relieve.
I have seen. How can one forget? why would you want to?
The others say such understandings are simply trivial. Yet I stand in awe, for He Is. I am the finite dust, withering away in my own inherently decaying flesh.
What more can I say.

Lucky me?

I don't understand, I really don't.
We say it all the time. We have no control, no real free choice. Christ has done it all. He loved us - me - so much he died so that I could be saved, Me and you and maybe a few others. Lucky me? Christ found me. I did nothing.
Lord I thank you for your grace and mercy in and through my life, but I fail to understand your will for your people. I can only blame this on my fogged portrayal of who you really are.
Father, I do not wish for heaven nearly as much as I desire to know you. I want to understand, yet all man can say is that you are a living paradox... I don't understand how you could have created me for blind servitude and yet let sin enter the world to keep such things from occurring? Or am I wrong about that too?
I fear more than anything, that some how, some way, we think we figured you out. Who you have chosen, and how; your intent, your desire, the final say. We have placed you into a neat little hand book to being saved. All the while we give you credit for leading the "chosen" ones to our handiwork that "you" have inspired through us.
Forgive me for seeding false intent if that is what this sounds like. I simply want to understand what the will of my Father is. I want to know Him.

We are asked to become like you, and yet are told such things are left a mystery? We have placed "foundational" evidence on your justice. I fear you God, but I also fear misleading.

My understanding of my father, is misconstrued by personal circumstance, apathy, and biological flaws. Is there any chance of finding the truth of who you are? Can I truly know who He Is?
all I can find rest in is that

He knows me.

So easily my mind slips from reality into desirability.
I twist and wrench the facts that make my wants a living, breathing thing.
The monster holds me begging to become the truth.
I frequently accept its embrace with little reluctance.
You are familiar, seductive and ugly.
You beckon me into your house.
Seemingly so innocently I trap myself, cuffing my own limbs to your will.
Why do I fall?
What calls me to return?
Why am I like this?
I am tripping backwards telling all in my path I am sprinting toward my God.

I want so badly to want so badly to want you. Yet still I WANT the familiar, seductive, and ugly.

I think there is a point in everyone's life where it is undeniable that there is a God, and that we are in desperate need of him.

hm

Beckoning

A soft touch, A warm hand, A gleeful look, and an open heart.
The Winds are changing, My lips are sealed.
Bronze light shadows the landscape.
The cold air threatens. I shan't be swayed.
Night sneaks over the ground...

Greyed eyes, withered by time, understand death and love lost.
Yet I stand fevered, excited for something still not birthed.
I've wished to be the vestiges, marked myself amongst souls I've crossed.
Forgotten is who fear I've become.
As the new season docks, the old leaves wither along with my aspired thoughts.
The golden night is the silver lining for a man weakened by rot.


Age had not gripped me. I stand with back straight.
A proud look in his mother's eye. She cannot see
the lust I feed;
something I wouldn't negate.
A soft touch, A warm hand, A gleeful look, and an open heart
preys me like that rat that I am.
No dreams of skin and steamy rooms.
The contrast wouldn't fit.
As the gold disappears into the dead of night.
He falls off the edge.
Spinning.
Wildly.
Free Falling into the darkness.
Approaching nothing.
No conclusion.
No rest.
Only the dream of
A soft touch, A warm hand, A gleeful look, and an open heart.

Black trees.  The night air fogs your vision.
Similar nights like this brought to the present by a reoccurring dream
the presence of my emptiness encompasses my yearning.
Sickened by a lingering truth: so far away, so little to do with me
I can drive this stake through the heart of my serenity
refuse the ballroom steps which perfectly piece this puzzle
stiffen my back and pretend I am better than the slum i have become.
but who's to say I am not. In another time, in another world I could've made this work