God remains unseen,

He disguises himself to --


do the things He does.

It's quiet inside,

mother is in the palace --


of her devotions.

I rest in self-misery, as the pride of a mirror - to only see
It as I alone, suffering through these trials. My successes are
Mere private congratulations; pats on the back, aspirations relying
On the weight of the estimation theory. As are my days: random
Components, wholly in the degree of alteration

Days alternate between good or bad; often the latter- a newer
Taste of bitterness, to an unreasonable resentment; a sad struggle
Against the Diarrhoea of Complaints- for yes indeed, life can be
So full of ****, and almost in that same mirror, you sadly see
The very crap you’re forced to be seated in,- daily

As a man is the master in his own fantasies; to have dreams
In which they live as gods- their truths all taking a deformed shape
The shape of life being abstract; as what hurt you today, becomes
The foundation to build tomorrow’s strength. So don’t give into
What pain rests on your plate- feeding into its lies; as where there is
One’s fate, lies the fuel of faith. So ask yourself; where on that tank’s
Needle, does your faith tend to want to sit on

Coded messages, inscribed by the scars on my skin
Aspects of a secluded heart; as the line of tears, maps
Out the journey to a long sense of finding due healing

As the border between maturity and old youth, in a new attire;
Once the public uniform of coming in your, “Sunday best,”
Disguising all the vile of yourself- as we fashion ourselves to
Look like the most likable person; the scrap pieces of dripping water
From prior baptisms- as some of the sovereign believers are uncouth
To their God, wearing the many false skins, hunted in wickedness-
Their very own diplomacy of delighted barbarism  

Separate all of your self-gratifying creeds, and agreed to
Worship in love, pray together; coming as you are- as we are
All knitted together by familiar troubles, hurts, griefs, uproars-
To raise our voices, bringing life to this new body.

Lost in sombre details, of what really hangs around morals
-Crucifix, hanging around a sinner’s neck; so choked up
While the devil speaks on my livelihood with his demons
Parading as unwanted guests; foundations of personal griefs
I am unguarded; not well versed in a couple scripture verses

Versions of my weekly self- a relaxed stance, trying to have
Faith in a life of ease. Setting aside everything else, in the
Way of being by my bedside- faithfully praying on my knees

Still if my faith is loosely based on modern people’s commitment
To their faith and integrity, I might as well be faithless as them all-  
Seated in a church; behind on my many debts, sitting at the back
Listening to the loud laughs of the greatest hypocrites,
The usual Sunday gossip, sounding clearer than a church bell
Leaders who burnt me, quick to preach how I might go to Hell

As a failed sense of wholesome community in communal
Around church clicks of skin colour, for Sunday’s different cults
In what my conscious tries to say is a domicile sanctuary:
I’m a bit reluctant to fully agree with my own self

The towering candles of the monk’s studious hours
Now guttered to an old head on the pillowing smoke.

The Pied Piper of Hamelin bloated on the lawn
And the rat tails from his eye sockets engorged.

War is the end of all lore,
The bare abdomen of the ****** Mary gutted for her son,
War is a *******’s mouldering arms,
The infidel to love, the mutilator of colors,
War is the broken feast of the heart,
Bones picked clean.

I know the guiltiness of a dusty Bible
Brown specks slipping off my *******
Diminishing into my morning coffee,
To make the blend taste a whole lot bitter

Empty sentiments; too deep to be openly cast-off,
Once of someone who had the heart to their devotion
Nowadays it had proved heartless;- so fruitless:

Still a tree is judged by its fruits.

Lying, exposed,
I've made myself
A sacrificial lamb
On the altar of
The unmade bed.
Time and again
I offer myself
To a merciless, wrathful
God, a wolf, a serpent
A blasphemous act
Against my unclaimed heart.
These are no Gods
Towering over me,
Only vultures picking me
To scraps.

Material lips; sewing on a seamless smile;
A shrouded piece of wool- for one wearing
The jersey of youth, as time slowly pulls at the thread
While I lock away my shadow of the writhing darkness,
Trailing behind me in the day; as I once tried speaking
To my void, but the emptiness obeyed not a single word

A tap tap at my window- the eyes to a soul, painted wholly
In the colours of divorce; as the separation of dreams
From one’s imagination. All, all was so dark; slandered
By such a terrorizing world- until I opened to let him in;
As a child with a curious thought, soon questioning, and
To study- for my lips to utter:

I cannot live out this life,
Without letting You, O Lord in.