Wednesday, February 7, 2018

psalm for the self-pitying

You have made us for yourself,
O Lord,
and our hearts are restless:
but you abandon us
to wallow in our own unrest.

Created for communion,
you let us wander—union-less—
through pointed days.
Their barbed, pregnant denouements
would be sweeter meaningless.

Each day

—saturated with too much meaning:
memories echoing the hollow rattle
presence of our present's absences.
Broken ties, tangled webs,
bruised hearts,
paths abandoned—people too—

pierces our palm even as we
(Good little school boys! Doing as we're told!)
drawing fresh blood from
each cosmic car-wreck victim.

You who were to fill us with finest wheat,
feed us instead cold nights,
spanning star-less above our empty beds.

Our heart —corporate abscess
of contagion collected subcutaneously —
gnaws hungry at our breath.

Is it better to have a nature
rendering the Face of God visible to us
and wind up damned,
than to be a crabtree who never had the ability to miss the Beatific Vision?

Is it better to have hearts made for others
and fall asleep to the silence of no answering pulse
than to be a stone, wrapped in a heartbeat of a human hand,
and not be moved at all?

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