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?

Her once golden array
Flowing down around her supple limbs
When all was new and the day
Tangled around her sun-dark skin as
Sheets of desire, spilled Cabernet,
Wasted hours on foolish whims.

These winters, cold and cruel,
Unleashed unholy, jealous rage
She was passion- a capricious fool
Laying uncovered until engaged
The flawless fell to brutal-
The ageless aged.

She wanders wild, confused,
Clutching her threadbare shawl
Her lovers long ago excused
Her unbowed features fall
Into the wrinkle, spot, and bruised
By the loss of her enthralled

She roams in search of her wailing wall.