Self-contempt is his prison.
Within his own, such division.
Between the cure and the lethal,
Between his good and his evil.
Stuffed it in, shoved it down,
Sets his gaze to what’s around.
Ignoring wars raging within,
Projecting fault. Projecting sin!
Casts a rue on all he sees,
But the beast, it lies in he.
He’s the source of all that rue.
What on earth is he to do?
Does he rage upon his own?
Should he hide, all alone?
Perhaps deny that it exists?
Turn away from these gifts?
Gifts? Wait. Could it be?
That this beast that lies in he,
Rests upon something greater?
Perhaps the mark of his creator?
A thought, an opportunity,
A harmony, a unity!
Then he weeps as he laughs,
At these ever-warring halves.
Can’t know day without a night.
Can’t know wrong without a right.
Evil’s naught without the good.
This was hopeless until he could!
This life is an expression.
These flaws are but a question.
The will of God, it lies in he,
And underlies all he sees.
While it’s a small and meager will,
It is there to be fulfilled.
And not, to be condemned,
But to love and to transcend.
Contains conflict notwithstanding,
And peace that passes understanding.
It is the contents of a soul.
It is a means to be made whole.
© 2020 TheRememberings Ltd.