to hope.

Hope is a perilous endeavor;

a precarious business,
wherein the condition of the heart
is the bearer of the weight.

Where the risk is to hope at all.

Hope is the opportunity.

The door to the chalkboard room;
walls, floor and ceiling,
bare and longing that You might compose Your dreams there.

That You might fill the empty space.

I have of my own will, before now;
but the intention of the characters is qualified by the author,
not merely the lean and weight of the hand.

Penmanship I wear well,
but I am not You.

I am not the night sky,
swelling with depth;
Effervescent glitter,
swallowed in immortal midnight blue.

I am not the light of day,
spilling gentle charity over earth and flesh;
bathing heart and fear with invincible warmth.

I am not benevolence.
Benevolent, Yes.
But who of the two of us calls goodness their offspring?

You.
You are good.
Only You.

Hope; what perilous endeavor.

What treacherous footing to tread
on the path to promises fulfilled.

But You are sure.
Though my eyes dare not see,
You are sure...

And the risk is to hope at all.

where walking cease.

You've painted me a cripple;

stolen the virtue of trained limbs,
and given little explanation.

I breathed in the cool of the day;
alive in the innocence of ignorance,
drinking deeply its wonder...

or at least so I believed.

But beyond the flaming gates,
in the land east of Eden,
my heart returned to the dust.

My flesh remembered;
my veins coursed liquid air,
acquired with my adequate lungs.

And there I understood alone.

"To what gain", said the earth.
"To what gain is your walking?

You only move further away from where it is that you're going."

"For what purpose", groaned creation.
"For what purpose is your talking?

You only declare things you have not understood"

But what of my lungs;
are they not strong?

What of these legs;
do they not carry me forward on sinew and bone?

What of these eyes;
can they not perceive the way before me?

There I understood alone.

For all of my going,
and breathing,
and seeing...
I've done my good to the end of Yours.

Blinded in the brilliant light
of the likeness impressing itself,

I lost my way in finding it well.

So paint me the cripple;
You owe me no explanation.

Make me to lie down,
so You might lead me beside.

Restore the soul that surrenders;
restore the soul that has given up.

So that someone beside myself,
so that You,
might rescue me.

Paint me the cripple,
in the garden where walking cease.

vessel.

Count the cost, they say.

And I sit in my waiting,
yet to find a relinquishment of my own...

yet to bear witness to any forfeiture of mine
that wears its bravery proudly.

At least not in light of this.


Lonely is the vessel, in an estranged sea.
Bartering with currents,
Contending with waves...

...a campaign against wind
and odds
for the sincerity of it's proud hull.

But lonely is the vessel,
proceeding against a trained sea.
Hoping against hope to find one of its own kind.

A voice in the wilderness,
orphaned in its cause.

Count the cost, they say?

At what return...?


Lonely is the vessel,
and cost is inherent within the wound.

Deserted in the cost
of counting all else as loss..

..of calling the bluff,
and heralding an epic

that nurtures no counting at all.


And I sit in my waiting...

yet to bear witness to any forfeiture of mine

that wears its bravery proudly.

At least not in light of this.

saveme.

Residual ache,
and the familiar presence of subsequent numbness.

I am a fortress...
with paper walls and toy cannons.

A battlement forged in the sweat of my own effort.

Man-made and proportionately immortal.

Thick skin and practiced expressions.

No one will know I hurt if I can help it.
No one.

But therein lies the problem with paper...
tearing beneath pressure,
moving with the wind.

So blow me down.

Watch imperial towers fall in Your wake.
Leave me in ruin,

in numbness.

In the presence of residual ache.

For I am a fortress,
cannons firing blanks.

A battlement forged of my good effort,
that can no longer fight for itself.

Save me.

permissible. [forbetterorworse]

These doldrums have become a dull drum..

predictable repetition of such numbingly wearisome rhythm.

My heart beats far too extravagantly,
far too alive,
to find its rest in this pattern.

And so, stand I will not...
wait expectantly I will not.

Tarrying has lost its luster in the blinding light of promise.
Your promise.

I have lost my interest in the decoration of performance.
Her metals are not rare.

Rusted and conventional,
they leak they're poison through the flesh of my chest...

entering the bloodstream, and corrupting the heart.

I will not give up my breath to self-made and tepid,
if that's what is to give You glory.

It's all You
or it's all me.

All
or nothing.

You, who orchestrates the rhythm of this heart.

Write your resonant symphony,
or will me your wand.

Only one of us can conduct,
and the zenith of time is upon us.

If You are who I hope,
breathe life into wearied and numb...
be the heart-bending melody and sweeping landscape.

Do, so I will not.

These doldrums are not my home,
so make for me a land called pleasure...

lest I am left to my own limbs and devices,
to fulfill promises my heart did not dare to utter.

All, or nothing.
Permissible?
Yes.

Beneficial is the chief responsibility and,
I want to believe,
the sole longing of the benefactor.

For better or worse.

forfeit.

What admirable will;
pure as the driven snow,
blind as the night is dark.

Exalt yourself follower...

believe in your shallow moment and waning pride
that you have done well.

Build your house on good effort and righteous performance...

Live in your facade, knowing all too deeply
that you haven't ever known.

I've traveled the four winds to discover the discipline of men
is often no more than the social security of the flesh.

Taking parts and pieces here and there...
promising a payout one day for faithfulness.

And so, I am found, guilty with the rest.

Creating a God who is good
somewhere in the mural of my duly rewarded accomplishments;

Making for myself a God I can see,
and bowing at its feet...
all so I can be certain he does, and is, exactly as I need.

But no less, and certainly no more.

Today,
Today I forfeit my "faith".

alive and fighting.

We fight to stay alive.

Make our beds with images and moments...
The substance of, or substances that feel like air in our lungs...water on our skin...

fire on the altar
alcohol in the blood
opiate for the nerves

We throw up our hands,
grasping at the right to feel...

something.

Try your giving up, only to find yourself trying.

To feel.
To know you have life.

The mandatory war of breath and existence.
We all, with or without the judgements on our lips,

we fight to stay alive.