self-destruction
the joy of something new
and old
and young
and soft to hold
why is this jaded nature
taking over
the eyes have all turned
cynical
where is the pleasure
man once had
for beauty framed by truth
a truth we now
deliberately
misread
and why the hate
why the bitter words
that spew from mouths
adrip with blood
the teeth that gnash the Lord’s
good Name
as though to prove
how lost
we
are
why rip His heart
the one that bled
each drop
so red
for those who are
the walking dead
why must we curse
for only on
ourselves the curse
is turned
and why must anger
find
a finger
pointing out in blame
when all blame lies
in the balled up fist
thrown at the sky
and pointing
the wrong
way
why do we resist
the love
and now insist
on digging through the dirt
with broken hands
making a hole
in which we’ll lie
at the end of our self-defeated lives
and die
amongst the tattered remains
of our own
misbegotten
self-inflicted
patronizing
hate
where is the hope
that was brought
at such
high cost
it stares us in the face
but with our
hands
over our eyes
we’ll never see it
