Wretched Soul

When the tears of a man freely flow, deep in his heart no one knows is a depth unexplored. No one cares to understand just how deep. When the eyes of a man are watery red, no one just seems to understand, because he really ought to be a man. Look at me, a wretched soul, with a conscious mind and a willing spirit, but nothing to show for it.

In the times when things worked out just all right, alright, may have assumed they would remain so. My efforts at effortlessness sure did bear fruit, fruit that will last, sigh! Turned care in to malice and concern to abandon, rewrote the rules of engagement and put in the disengagement clause. Bold and italicized yet invisible, look at me, a wretched soul, with a conscious mind and a willing spirit, but nothing to show for it.

When fan into flamed fanned till the flames scorched, fire disaster. The furnace made seven times hotter and the son of man still not in the picture. When the den of lions became the scavengers’ haven and the birds of prey perched their scary claws on its edges. Spirit unborn and desire watered down, looked up to yet not up yet, look at me, a wretched soul, with a conscious mind and a willing spirit, but nothing to show for it.
Raising up the alabaster, ready to crush it, because breaking it has proven too much a task. But it weighs on my hands and throwing it down suddenly is harder than lifting it up yet my hands can hold a moment more. The dispendioso perfume does not match the length of my hair, my glory is shaven. Love has shifted, just got redirected and absence is no longer fondness, look at me, a wretched soul, with a conscious mind and a willing spirit, but nothing to show for it.

The soothing mèlodie playing on. It’s not over, it’s not finished, it’s not ending, it’s only the beginning, when God…God? Really? All things are new? And the strings hum along but my spirit wanders off. It is hard to hold on to, for the simplicity of the words is the center of the complexity, look at me, a wretched soul, with a conscious mind and a willing spirit, but nothing to show for it.

Then what?! Won’t my consciousness and willingness be strength enough for me to carry on? Will death stare its naked ugly fangs at me and put me in despair? Is it anything He cant repair? He who is up there? Daddy am coming just as I am, in my mess, my incompleteness, oh! All my lessness, my wretchedness, look at me.