My eyes were deep holes,
Boring into him,
Mouth sluggish as it
Searched for the words;
But they were malformed,
They were broken limbs,
Unable to be righted
So, I pulled out a pen
And placed the paper
in his hands. Read this.

I spoke slow, measured
Because written word
Was yet to fail me
Compared to the treachery
Of my weighted tongue

When we look at the formative years
Of our lives, in docile innocence,
We see so many faults—
Things we must fix, or else
We risk living our whole lives
on repeat. Is it too hard to think,
That sometimes, we change
Too much, and end up so far
From any semblance of good,
That we are worse than before,
As we were in our youth?

My own disobedience
Trailed behind me
In a squeaky red wagon,
Tired and rusting,
Burdened from its
Heavy accumulation
of grief and self-criticisms.

Blasphemy,
He had a whole page
Of facts about me--
An entire biography
I had written myself
From blabbering.
But when I set down
To write his,
Only a name
Was scrawled in ink--
Kind words? A bright face?
But what did he look like
When the moon only shone
On glass fragments,
And the air turned dark
From the absence of voices?
I saw Jesus in his heart;
He spread his abounding love
By simply talking with those
Who were looked down upon.
But besides his acts from afar,
What do I know that he has told me
In hushed, timbre tones,
Sober with intentionality?
Shame-faced, I think
“Nothing.”