And Thus We See Applied Force's Infirmity
I seem the impotent man, and bound!
utterly fettered by both rule and your opinion
continually ousted by your compulsive thoughts.
whetted witticisms undercutting my legs
so what if my truth is not your truth?
and what matter if my ability the half of yours?
this malaise is my own, neither bought nor sold
and it works in my milieu, works in my world.
You all are not I and gratefully
neither am I swallowed up in your ownership
what a prison each would make of one anothers flesh
what hellish steps would be those shoes.
Perhaps this is the great sin
that issue that angels trip'd and fell over
their tumbling from grace. possession and compulsion
a third the hosts itched to own you and I.
Be free! I'll not manage you to death or distinction.
Achieve either on your own.
man is free, I am merely a magistrate;
let your amplitude play out over God's marten stage.
Break and be broken if you will
your daily small cuts, but tiny nothings, all sewn up
stitches standing out in neat surgical precision
tidy black on skin, they disintegrate when healed
both scars and rules are made and unmade
-yet nothing is so great as God-
He is the last executor of will, so be still!
today is not the last, nor the greatest.
If we are creatures who live beyond this veil
what false notions we must own about work.
how tiring this life! Will an eternity of rest
be the salve to still the throbbing bunion?
What if our next life is not avoidance of fatigue
but one where we relay the truth behind creature,
gently prodding folks that sin leads to Savior?
that at the root of all things, these lead to God?
If we were to now but sit and draw in the dirt
when the stones are gathered and raised
perhaps we'd realize bullshit is merely that.
only God can judge, He and none else.
And some are the times when He would sew up
wounds, pouring in oil. Perhaps other times
staying His hand and allowing the bomb, the fire,
the flaming sword wielded by the angel at the tree.
This life has nothing tiny, all is significant
and consuming anger is really but a sting, a stone
awaiting to be flung. Qumran! Let my stones be
flung away and my jars be unearthed.
If canopic, allow them to be. They carry my heart
they carry anointing oil, they carry scented herbs.
Let God restore and heal; let Him mark my brow
let the my soul be unstoppered and all poured out!
Let the poor and the bankrupt all sit and sup
Let the grievances be allayed, the cacchination
be subdued, the false pride be corrected.
My God will rule evenly in the end, mark'd and fair.
My God will make a place to sit,
on that plateau where he marks his meal,
and at that chair, that symbol lost again is drawn,
bridegroom's feast! Thieves and beggars at both elbows!
So mock on, my friends. My anger is now dried up
this manager is no Simon the sorcerer.
My odium at your work is gone
and the compelling power I longed for is freely surrendered to God.