A poem.

She wrote the notes in her journal
behind the page where she
placed the lies that she was going
to love like the days when she
knew her husband was coming
through, that he was going to
make an appearance long enough
for her to enjoy it.

She marked in pen, highlighted
the edges, with hearts in the
margins and our name in the
center how much she new her
love for him was going to last.

He came through for a while,
stopped on as he passed through
his confusion and she waited
patiently as he yelled from
under the trees on the picnic
table curses because he had
no idea of where he was going
to be.

She told him he was going to be
a preacher but he shrugged and
put a hand passed her, told
her she couldn’t speak and
he didn’t ask her, his mark
was on his face there was
no hiding his shame any
longer, he had fed his desires
and pushed her away.

The lie that told him he
deserved her after the perversion
that followed the abuse of
grace fought for by our savior,
that man can sin again as long
as that boy is forgiven, because
cutting off a limb in exchange
for discipline is not a worthy
trade.

She stood there and begged,
asked her husband to behave,
that he would control himself,
but again he shrugged and pushed
her away, told her she had no
meaning behind anything she
had to say.

She ran off to weep in the comfort
of brick structure, with the door
closed behind her and he went off
to prey on his temptation, take
advantage of the flesh that covered
him and crossed her out of his
mind to feed whatever need his
lusting heart could bring to him.

The shame that covered his
pride, he knew he was wrong, but
his heart knew pain so he blew his
integrity for an exchange of no
monetary value, just the quieting
of the beast in his brain.

She could not comprehend the
agony of his pain, the lost mind
and the insomnia that drew his
peace and slew the fighting of
his spirit.

She didn’t understand his change,
how could she? She was ignorant,
naive to the plan his flesh had
devised against him since he
chose to follow in the footsteps
I AM planned for him.

She kept writing in that notebook,
waiting for her husband to come
home, but he wouldn’t he had places
to be, and people to see, he had a
need to find who he was going to
be and she knew he was never
coming home.

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Liked it
  • marqjonz on Aug 10, 2012

    Powerful. Thanks.

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