I can try to restrain, to retreat,
From this familiar roam,
But not all ruts are carved defeat.
Maybe all roads do lead home
If you travel long enough.
A preacher puts pressure
On all the weakest seams,
But not all stressors
Conspire to redeem,
And I miss the traveling.
In our broken best
Our innocence compounded
To forge a distinctive crest
We stay astounded
At what stays home.
Maybe we are broken,
But what we have seen
Leaves folly unspoken,
And only the obscene
Would speak to it.
Yet arrogance glistening,
Marinating the core of man,
Always speaking, never listening,
Defers on some master plan
Justice in conquest.
Humility waits for zeal
To wound itself, the limp
Salvation in motion, reveals
What the inner imp
Took for himself.
How am I to explain these things
To ears that only hear themselves?
There is no possible conversing
When you’re labeled on a shelf
Before you begin.
viewingcamelot 
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