We cannot measurefor Thomas von Kempen
We cannot measureThose saved by the WordBut those fallen and assaultedBy, let's be clear, the Word
Seek a suitable time for meditationOn the saved who live in secret pactsHiding from the harsh worldBy wrapping all in holy clothNever holding the courageTo unwrap
Tweed jacket
you must leave rather soonor they'll cry 'get out!'
if you try on any more religionstorn, weary & greylike many a tweed jacketfrom St Vinnie's
they're never your sizeand they humble your closetso proudly
The coals I carried for you
Who am I to deny your genealogyin the form of commercial paganism?Those earthly stars hardly matchthe real ones just overhead now.
High voltage delirium found solacein underfed unicornsexpounding commonsense.Why not turn inward instead?
Pixilation
our preserverour soon-to-bestreets to be litteredwith deconstructing waresno natural life-forceto engulf and spiral through
only the 'products'computer chip fragmentsreplacing the 'sands of time'
pixilation earthDOS-dust
It overwhelms
and your lawless heartcannot intend another divideto break throughto bend throughto chew through
the adultery you commitin your heartmakes churchessuch scarce ventures
but all of that skinthat you pace foroverwhelms youralready bright yearningin the shadowsof cold compunction
Clutching at air
Of course, all longhairs are assuredThat you can't rely on anyone, forAnything, for any length of time,For any staidness in space, for anyRapture dissipated out in a friend'sKind impatience.
Offer a hand up to offer another lifeIn the desert to one inhaling dust, asHe denies the metaphoric futilities.It isn't exactly life, but admit it freely,If you were a sun-baked carrion, orSimple fearing the marketplace. HereYour soul would leap, forgotten byDealing, crushed by opportunity.
If this being does not transpire, weTurn, after clutching at air, to Christ.For the time-watched glory is there.The baggage, on first sight, is slim,He's travelling light, he'll softenThose silly little whims.
But more so for the pathetic weaknessThat walks on high without aspirationOr pill. His shorn power as the lamb, notAs the holder of the keys to the lost andFound box. The smudge of sweat uponA clean, crisp page, a wrinkled face lit,The joy of a crippled black pup.
Matthew John Davies is a writer and blogger from Brisbane, Australia. He has been published in Cottonmouth, Page Seventeen and Skive Magazine.