Through the Looking Glass

I don’t call it by name

Because that’s an invitation-

I live on the river bed,

Underneath civilization;

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?

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