Friday, September 7, 2012

It would be easy
to go quietly into
the hands of an inviting
God that once was mine
and could be mine again, but I feel
it holds more wonder to
wait for hell fire than
drink from a foreign glass.
I rather my God punish me
than dream up a deceiving joy
that I embrace without fear. Let me
anticipate the roaring flames
and noxious fumes from
seared flesh and crack bone,
not that it should offer solace,
but to feel the cruelty of
the porcupine quill reminds
me that if my father punished
me for my wrongs, surely God
must do the same. In either
circumstance, love was the inspiration
so I am soothed in my troubles
by that lone fact. 

No comments:

Post a Comment