I don’t call it by name
Because that’s an invitation-
I live on the river bed,
I’m so still, but I feel the constant flow.
I didn’t know-
Rock-bottom isn’t a location,
But a perspective;
An after-taste of damnation
Intensifies redemptive mouthfuls.
I sank like doubtful,
But His fingers lifted my fixations
From a muddy grave.
I rely on His instigations
To prevent my constant sinking.
And the ebb and flow I’m drinking
Is His pulling me from desolation,
And my thanks,
And my falling from consecration
To my familiar perspective.
My sin is introspective
And narcissistic contemplation-
And are these blues
Sin- or the excavation
Of repentance and remembrance?