Poem: The body of the Wicked Man

I am like a fly, in the throes of moaning desire for Death,

For my sins accuses me into a petty parchment played on a piece of paper,


How I want to fall into Your heaven right now,

like how the clouds will shatter in the glass-drop sky of bluebell illusion,

where I might embrace Your reality of heaven and hell

and finally sink into my real world.


How I want to drop down on my knees

and feed my fear so that I may mar this body

that seeks to

defile and hurt You.


How I may drop dead at your Glory

that I may never forget how beautiful You are

in a world that dies and pales as it falls.


Lord, how long can I last on this earth before You take me in Your arms

and remove those thorns that pricks out from within my skin,

through the blood that gives my filthy life.

The pricks that tries to escape me,

move in an assembly line all over my nimble body,

My moving body that works to do the will of the things you hate.


Oh God, how long before I can die?

And then finally be happy in Your arms?

And do I cry take this cup away from me? No. Let Your Will be done.

Let Your Will be done.



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