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They wander in search of ancient shrines, Endlessly roaming, people seek the divine. Each day, a new address for God, they say— Even He seems to move away. I’ve watched the roads, the cars, the skies, Even learned to watch my thoughts arise. No one leaps to a final stand, Man merely roams across the land. When the wind, with careless grace, Blows away cheap plastic bags in chase. I've seen, at the edge of fleeting delight, So many drift through the dreamy life. All joy and sorrow now congeal, Even the finest feels unreal. Wearing pride as his only name, A hidden serpent feeds on pointless fame. And leaving behind the soul of sight, He spins in circles, day and night. Rather than stepping deep within, He dances round the veil of sin. I’ve watched the roads, the cars, the skies, Even learned to watch my thoughts arise. No one leaps to a final stand, Man merely roams across the land. They wander in search of ancient shrines, Endlessly roaming, people seek the divine. Each day, a new address for God, they say— Even He seems to move away.
0
Sep 20, 2025
Sep 20, 2025 at 9:14 AM UTC
rv_alive
The Restless Pilgrim
They wander in search of ancient shrines, Endlessly roaming, people seek the divine. Each day, a new address for God, they say— Even He seems to move away. I’ve watched the roads, the cars, the skies, Even learned to watch my thoughts arise. No one leaps to a final stand, Man merely roams across the land. When the wind, with careless grace, Blows away cheap plastic bags in chase. I've seen, at the edge of fleeting delight, So many drift through the dreamy life. All joy and sorrow now congeal, Even the finest feels unreal. Wearing pride as his only name, A hidden serpent feeds on pointless fame. And leaving behind the soul of sight, He spins in circles, day and night. Rather than stepping deep within, He dances round the veil of sin. I’ve watched the roads, the cars, the skies, Even learned to watch my thoughts arise. No one leaps to a final stand, Man merely roams across the land. They wander in search of ancient shrines, Endlessly roaming, people seek the divine. Each day, a new address for God, they say— Even He seems to move away.
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Communion in Gethsemane was written as an act of re-framing intimacy through devotion rather than desire. The poem exists in the space where physical closeness becomes spiritual posture—where kneeling is not submission, but choice; not hunger, but attention. Gethsemane is named deliberately, echoing the biblical garden where surrender, fear, and love coexist, because this poem is about choosing to remain present inside vulnerability rather than rushing toward outcome. The imagery of breath, listening, and pauses reflects my belief that true intimacy is not something taken, performed, or claimed, but something received through patience and trust. The mouth, often associated with appetite or dominance, is reimagined here as a vow—unarmed, careful, and responsive. This is not an act driven by lust, but by reverence for another person’s autonomy, timing, and unspoken language. For me, this poem marks the difference between wanting someone and honoring them. It is about learning a body the same way one learns prayer: slowly, humbly, and without entitlement. Communion in Gethsemane is not ****** in its intention, even if it is intimate in its imagery—it is a meditation on consent as sacred practice, and on closeness that only exists when both voices, spoken and unspoken, are allowed to lead.
0
Feb 4
Feb 4, 2026 at 9:25 AM UTC
InkWept
God's Note Communion in Gethsemane
Communion in Gethsemane was written as an act of re-framing intimacy through devotion rather than desire. The poem exists in the space where physical closeness becomes spiritual posture—where kneeling is not submission, but choice; not hunger, but attention. Gethsemane is named deliberately, echoing the biblical garden where surrender, fear, and love coexist, because this poem is about choosing to remain present inside vulnerability rather than rushing toward outcome. The imagery of breath, listening, and pauses reflects my belief that true intimacy is not something taken, performed, or claimed, but something received through patience and trust. The mouth, often associated with appetite or dominance, is reimagined here as a vow—unarmed, careful, and responsive. This is not an act driven by lust, but by reverence for another person’s autonomy, timing, and unspoken language. For me, this poem marks the difference between wanting someone and honoring them. It is about learning a body the same way one learns prayer: slowly, humbly, and without entitlement. Communion in Gethsemane is not ****** in its intention, even if it is intimate in its imagery—it is a meditation on consent as sacred practice, and on closeness that only exists when both voices, spoken and unspoken, are allowed to lead.
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3