Smudged peace-signs
On corrogated metal.
Chalk that frowned,
Not understanding its
Purpose or the message
People had assigned it.
In this time, it was not
Seen as sign of peace,
But only the failure, the
Death, met by those who
Thought they held the
Solution to the fall of
Man. But they didn’t
Grasp that peace was
Unattainable, and only
Mercy and salvation
Could offer what they
Sought so steadfastly.

Lord, I am a mime, pounding
On the invisible walls of my
Own life, suffocating in a box
I didn’t know surrounded me—
Where is the key? Is there a
Loose brick, a fissure in the
Dam? The silence is deafening,
And water begins to pool at
My feet, slowly rising—I call
For help, but my words are
Warbled, incoherent and lost
As they richoet back to me.
The mortar scrapes my fists,
Making the air ******, and I
Call out to you, Lord; I ask
For you to be my home, my
Foundation, not this craggly
Prison I incased myself in—
So many years of building
The walls of distrust as the
Water of anxiety mills about
Me—Lord, let me breathe, fill
My lungs with your spirit and
The love I have been avoiding.

Words do not flow in logical sentences--
They create towns and political systems,
Going about their days with no regard
For how I try to organize them. I am the
Tyrant instigating taxes and cutting
Down trees, suffocating my people in 

An attempt to build the perfect society.