Sun shines through the spring leaves,
Landing on a damp slab of concrete.
The remnant of a cigarette butt
Falls to that same gray slab.
And the ash burns.
The smoke flies, blown by the wind
Of the self-focused passersby.
Meaningless, utterly meaningless
Is the life of fearful expectation –
A man who outrages the Spirit of grace.
A scrawling scribe
Sat at his dingy desk
And not enough nights
He took trips;
Snuck out, snuck in.
The thoughtful thespian
Stood on stinky stages;
Masks were worn and un-worn.
The forever family
People left; others came.
Those dreary days
Made life worth living;
I had the time of my life.
But what happened?
And we do.
Never let a day go dull.
But they do.
And there it is:
I stepped off the path set before me.
How do I get back to radiance, activity, and invitation?
The strike left a scar on my heart,
One that could only be mended
By the very Creator I had so emotionally raged against.
The trip, for the purpose of the greater Good,
Replays in my mind sometimes like a fairytale,
But I learned that day the path would become very twisted.
The girl – later I would find her, transformed ever darker
By the years we had spent apart – was beautiful;
I thought she was Light.
The years did damage to me, too,
But the Creator would mend – as He does.
And He still does. And will ’til I see Him face to face.
She was a busy-body, and her sister sat at the foot of her lord.
He took one little fish; over and over again he made them more.
I was a little boy, couldn’t walk, but he made me get up and run.
He gave me a voice and a reason to sing, a dancing purpose.
There she was to say, “Leave him alone; he’s serving the Lord,”
On the day I had black under my eyes; boys will be boys.