He calls.

It's a battle of our minds and our actions
Not mindful of foregone reactions
The third law applies to science and defiance
Reliance on ourselves, compliance with the smells, the looks, the feels, the appeals that steal our love.
Lowercase "L" because it less applies to Heaven than it does to Hell.
The pastors who preach and the fathers who teach fall back on a common speech:
Moderation in everything.
But, of course, this falls on deaf ears and these words tend to turn to fears to the millions of prodigals who drink tainted water that isn't even close to potable
it's poison - filled with sin
and delicious, a dish of burned out wishes for a people with torn out stitches
which once closed their wounded pride but now gush streams of rebelliousness and selfishness.
And I'm done going with that flow.
It's an undertow.
A current of so-called fun that leaves me feeling less alive and more like my feet have kicked the box I've stood on, leaving my body hung on the tree of iniquity.
He cuts that cord.
He fills that void with Love.
Capital "L" - the kind that drives you up to a mountain to yell of His graces and mercies
Flowing around and through, blowing in a hurricane of utter silence and peace - the kind only achieved when a blinded soul has been released.
Freedom is one thing. But I gladly shackle myself to this Love.
A bond servant of Christ, it won't always be sugar, spice, and everything nice.
It's much, much better.
Like when you open up that long overdue letter.
He turns "better" to "best" and lest you think that's all
He's already taken the fall.
He's destroyed every wall.
And from every corner of every long-lost soul,
He calls.

Writing to Dawn

As I sit here and write the night bites my mind takes flight to my brother, my past, the things of light I used to be so sure I was sure the world was a lure and I had the cure but now I'm unsure Age supposedly brings wisdom and questions and this here is my confession: I just don't know. That might be a low blow that blows because 18 year old me was ready to grow but growing is through pain and as the night starts to wane I see myself in the future holding a cane Will I become tame? Or like a lion, uncaged? These questions are haunting and where once I was flaunting, in reality I've been tried, judged, and been found wanting. The dawn is breaking, my fingers are shaking, the moon is waning And to the darkness the light is tainting. I'm less confident and so here I sit. Writing. Fighting. Delighting.