When the mind is in conflict
Nothing pleases the heart
Every resonance creates disharmony
Echoed from the sharpest edges
The conflict is amplified in the soul
Not aligned with the universe
Conflict of the mind takes over

600

It troubled me as once I was—
For I was once a Child—
Concluding how an Atom—fell—
And yet the Heavens—held—

The Heavens weighed the most—by far—
Yet Blue—and solid—stood—
Without a Bolt—that I could prove—
Would Giants—understand?

Life set me larger—problems—
Some I shall keep—to solve
Till Algebra is easier—
Or simpler proved—above—

Then—too—be comprehended—
What sorer—puzzled me—
Why Heaven did not break away—
And tumble—Blue—on me—

stars silently
    enveloped
     turbulent seas,
gingerly dappling
   each current,
whence the tides
   were stilled
'til they ebbed
    'tween streams
        of serene
            spring waters,
      rushing its
          banks in
             cascades of
                tranquil
                     awed hushes
                         overflowing
                                midst
                                   surrender's
                                                   quietude

"It's alright, you can cry?" She looks listlessly at her reflected shadow. There's nothing on her mind, every cloud of thought has left the gray skies of it. She feels like a desert, barren and almost lifeless. If she could cry she'd cry the oceans in to existence and drown the earth in her sorrow.
But  she cannot. That's the real tragedy. Nothing disturbs her. All she can do is stand there not quite sure how to express the endless grief that leaves her like a carcass. A decomposing body without a soul, without the breath and sentiments of life.
"You can cry." She repeats to the rippling water in the lake. Her distorted, ever moving mirror where she does not quite recognize herself in. It's impassive in its tranquility.
If she were a song she'd be a broken melody in a dusty music box. Forgotten and replaced.
You can cry, she remind herself in the middle of a night as darkness hangs upon the sky. As it clings to her like Death weighs on her shoulders and violates her through the pores of her dry skin.

Of course, she never does.

She drifts in the open abyss of a tempestuous ocean waiting for oblivion.
She drifts,
                                   she drifts,
                                                                         she drifts...

No dreams.
No sinking feeling of demise.
Waiting for the lighthouse in the distance but all is bathed in the shadows.
There's not consolation of sandy shores somewhere on the distance.

Cry, she begs herself laying on her bed ready to succumb to sleep. Closes her eyes and opens them to shadows. Obscure and never ending. The darkness is ubiquitous, the only God that has not yet forsaken her.
She walks a few miles in the flatness of the dark land but there is no point to her direction for all is desertion. So, she stands in the lightness of the black.
Sometimes, her young self hides behind her back, wearing white and glancing ahead. She looks back at herself and wonders what the she can see. Her dress and hair fluttering gently by an invisible breeze, countenance straight and strong, never looking at what should be in front. After, she walks barefoot in to the darkness and disappear as by enchantment.

You can cry.
                                    you
                                                  can
                                    cry

But, in the darkness of her mind and her room
The tears don't fall
And her affliction is obscured
darkness never seemed so profound

Near the bust stop, around the bend,
where the bus route comes to end,
Is a lane with buildings replete,
the best of the lot being Paraclete

With round Victorian window panes,
and 16th century structural frames,
It is like a manor on a London street,
This beautiful empyrean Paraclete

Coated in demure pink and white,
and shades of cream, very slight,
a structure of cement and  concrete
Its a divine abode, this Paraclete!

And named after the Holy Ghost,
this building, is home and host,
To a boy, who made my life complete,
He is my advocate, my Paraclete!  

When I sought God and asked for aid
He sent me the best he had made
the boy, from across the street
a resident of divine Paraclete!

But how could it possibly be?
For this boy was younger than me!
Why would God, send to my aid
A boy who 3 years after I, was made?

God replied "it took time to create
for you, a well suited mate,
It took a while to complete,
Your protector, guide and Paraclete"

When all courage had been lost
And my heart turned to frost
my faith had nearly come to deplete
But was revived, by the boy from Paraclete!

Under the orange
street lights
it's 3am

Longing to find him,
she skulks alone
in the dark

And as London sleeps
her cries go unheard
by all but one

I don't hate the racist
I hate the racist theology,
Not the racist..