The light is soft this morning.
A toneless still.
I strain past the creaks and rattles of
the old room.
To a place of silence and sanctuary.
Even amongst the artificial gibberish
God ministers to my soul.
I dread in this moment, those times I
make a loud parade over saying the right thing.
Which is no thing.
For taking off with the latest fads,
scratching out the eternal spirit of
life and clumsily scrawling a whim in its wake. Birdsong flutters in, falling
from the crooked tall tree.
I notice again the top branch at a
jaunty angle completing with a flourish
the alpine cone.
An elemental wizards hat.
How can we convulse and leak love,
projectile?
It’s not what I swallow that muddies
the endless pool but
what
I
vomit
out
Self-sacrifice was Jesus’s way.
His invitation was to follow.
Mother Theresa serene, and blue. The shape of a bullet.
She sacrificed herself. And to find her true self
waiting.
And she spent her whole life doubting
God and mourning his betrayal.
She came to understand she was to be an
angel of darkness.
For what good is it to get to heaven
but loose the real you?
Birdsong flutters through the open
window to gently war with a mechanical mash.
