I can’t constrain myself to the vindictiveness

That resides within the Lord’s body.

There is a blazing fire that rises up to the ceiling.

My mind is the lens from which I view new surroundings

Composed of light.

If I could whisper into the clouds,

Would the angels carry the weight of man’s burdens?

Who is willing to be the Lord’s champion when it comes to enforcing

Righteous paths that fill the heavens?

Must a shivering dove parish in the hazy frost,

Or is it possible he may be warmed by roaring flames of the sun?

Will the remnants of time survive another day filled

With treachery and peril?

Could it be that the loving hands of God

Never touched this congregated body,

But instead, there is self piety that runs through the veins

Of the parish leaders who strike tones of bitterness within my spirit?

For these are the hymns that crucifixions are made of,

That empower martyrs with guise and gain through the holy grail;

Yet, I still sit here alone on my bed recording vindicated lethargy

Of lessons that went unlearned by the unable body.