Comfortable enough to forget my place,
I overstepped my station again.
Crawling under the cover of grace,
But never to stand amongst men.
I still thirst some things in vain.
Why do we even know Priscilla’s name?
The poisonous bloom of tragic youth
Yielded its toxicity and tapered,
As the stronger undergrowth of organic truth
Choked its vitality to passing vapor.
All the while I fumbled with resistance,
Until truth transformed my base existence.
Told to kneel, given a reason to stand,
I do both in tandem, never sure whether
I kick the goads, or fight reprimands;
Do I tear asunder or tether?
Will there be peace in silence tomorrow,
Or just a rich young ruler’s sorrow?
Many thoughts weigh the heart,
And this tongue is no good rudder.
The answers are strewn too far apart,
The questions, one after another.
I believe: a gift above critique.
I believe, but can I speak.