Yet though we kill and are killed, the gospel bleeds hope. it bursts forth in healing in the midst of our violence. The murdered God, killed by you, brings life in death; a paradox of love and despair given to satiate and silence our blood lust. Advertisements
Sin’s insanity never ceases to surprise with no motive, we kill we murder for joy how creative humanity is in the destruction of others it is boundless and unending the imagination of the wicked.
Unwaveringly consistent each day and night it looms and dooms with sadistic delight The infection, the curse is so stark and malignant it’s chaotic and present no, more, mockingly persistent There’s a desire for clarity for an explanation of motive but the reality is this disease has intricately taken control of Each person; and that’s…
I’m very tired (of being sad) the fatigue is unbearable or maybe the energy required is? Exhaustion lulls me to sleep every morning, afternoon, evening, until, midnight arrives and I’m awake in darkness awake tired at the wrong parts of the day awake at the worst.
I hate this day not her, for dying (though, I did at one time) I hate how it came and our lives will never return to how it once was before.
Freudian slip I accidentally wrote that day today It’s embarrassing and frustrating to not be ok to be undone month after month the same day I know it will come! but I always forget how that day feels until it’s here.
when I close my eyes she’s there always there sometimes ill, sometimes well but there always there I feel a bit haunted and fear that I will never sleep peacefully again
We were hopeful, yes but I wasn’t really I felt guilty, but I saw the look in her eye and the pain in her body and knew. she knew. this was it.
joy sorrow joy they are coupled cosmically and intimately one arrives and the other draws near never far apart to our chagrin and comfort.
I’m exhausted from crying because of this dying loss after loss you did say, “pick up your cross” I’m following, I am! I’m doing the best I can but that’s where your mercy meets my failure conversely for as I pick up my cross I remember you picked up yours, too–what loss. But there is…
Does every poet want their words picked apart in abstraction? iambic, trochaic, it seems so prosaic Do they understand the depth of the words? the overall meaning? For if they don’t, isn’t this analyzing a bit demeaning?
O fortuna, do I hear you right? to agrigate fortune right out of his might? For the Trinity is one and the Trinity is three and the mercy received is not abstracted from thee for we have transgressed and and have been gladly purchased and, yes, too, blessed we, indeed, received pardon from sin but…