“Have
mercy upon us, O Lord, have mercy upon us: for we
are
exceedingly filled with contempt. Our soul is exceedingly
filled
with the scorning of those that are at ease, and with the
contempt
of the proud” (Psalm 123: 3-4).
I
know more pain, this sordid curse, as ugly at times; this terse fuse, while gladly
infectious—such colorful Christians! I
held mirrors, and destroyed mirrors, this curse of images; where mother wailed,
this tragic birth, trekking contorted wounds; to cry those sins, while plotting
more sins, at crucial turns afflicted by jinn(s). I must vanish, this three year hell, hiking
through Jerusalem; if but for sanity, this prophet of men, harassed by such
lofty Christians. I do confess—but a
wretched man, cleaving to mystic rites: that body and blood; those five graces;
this travesty concerning suffering: those inner pleats; as dearly to flame;
assaulted by demons; to live immortal, slammed
into crises, where Love spoke of sanity.
I must confess—this inner contempt, at wars to forgive deliberateness: to kill for souls, as
firm at laughter, to destroy a seed: this mother of woes; that beauty in sins;
that cry as evilness; for such gentility, a man by seven, those caged
insanities; as driven a fool, pleading his mother, where life was too rugged
and rough. It becomes mental, as one to
aim arrows—this woman as sheer dejection: that morbid infection; those yearly
drugs; that turn in time to become so lofty.
It should be gentle, as more this flame, at terrors, to swim through
marsh; that fabulous anger; that cryptic sunshine; those sights as violence
peaked; where neither cares, for life is drugs, while parents condone
anything. We sunk to rise, as shifting
our feet, while flailing our arms; to meet with ghosts, that mental experience,
those shards piercing into spirits; as born to love, this marvelous grace, at
chase, to extinguish self-hate: this furious culture; but a set of rules; to
follow by mortal standards; where life is death, this inner blessing, realizing
our Christ-like minds. We shed in parts,
trekking showers of dung, to rinse finally our minds; as seeing life, that rare
reality, as tears our humble souls; to turn cheeks, at a secret war, teaching
by chance our mishaps.
