Remembering myself, for shame, this
imperfect body made more imperfect
along the way; acting out, thanks to his kiss,
confined, as i was, by every defect
between me and a world that shut me out.
I have my medicine, now, to assist,
and i’ve accepted the only possible route
that keeps me to that which will consist
in the end, of nothing but His love.
i look forward to my perfected shape:
the path i chose, in the past, out of
desperation, thinking that i must escape
something that, finally, meant me no harm,
led me, however, to my philosophy,
which i’ve recovered—no cause for alarm,
and integrated, for what will must be.
So, happily, I develop His question
concerning the nature of reality,
and, in the process, i receive affirmation
that, indeed, He’s looking out for me—
a benefactor, to say the least, of
my perpetuated imagination,
sticking to the mechanics of His love,
a gradual, liberal reconstruction
of that which, in our mind, falls short
of the standard nature set, having done
humankind from the ground up. I court,
then, a balance between beauty and reason,
as she did when she made us the pinnacle
of the earth. But do my words fall on stoppered
ears? Or, on the other hand, am i full,
to the brim, with what, now, goes unpreferred
as a function of a former time? But, yet,
the unfolding of events must always
circle back to the foundations it would abet
if it weren’t for the pride that comes with days
of diluted hogwash and wasted energy.
So, I stand by my rhyme, and, years from now,
others will too, once i’m no longer in his way,
a man that, if elevated, might stir up a row
between the people we are and those we pay
when, minus Him, egos come knocking.
I’ll be rewarded, then, once it’s impossible
to change my tune, and crown myself king.
Forced, then, to be good by his jealous bull,
until, in being good, I prove myself true.
It’s all just as well, since I rely on what, next,
surrounds my realm—the family I accrue
when, in doing it, I inspire my text.