VESSEL

Breath. Vapor. Leaving air.

Bones. Shattered. Lying bare.

Soul broken. Silent resound.

Thoughts dueling. Mouth is bound.

Twisting, drilling into the mind.

Patience plays with ellusive time.

Strength is weak and heart heavy laden.

Pensive time grasps the walking maiden.

Into the night, breath leaves air..

To wander undisguised to the atmosphere.

What once dwells inside, will be born,

All things new in regeneration have been formed.

Death, be not my sniper here-

Take not my heart and render bare

Before the world an oozing vessel, dead.

The crime scene of where death had tread.

Death, I know, by God, you have lost your sting-

But I still own stained tears of mourning-

My heart still pulses for the reverse of time-

That their lives would breathe and Death have mine.

Death, no more victory of the world be held-

You hush silence, but the Lord breathes sound-

Breathes life, this massacred heart to soon be weld-

And prayers for souls to be Homeward bound.

We are a broken world indeed

When we live distant from

The love He bleeds

When pulse and affection

Have no chance

When we blame all things

Upon circumstance

The eyes and lips- they 

Will soon devour

The blessings we held dear

‘Forgotten in an hour

How much decay my heart invites

When belief and reason fail

Grasping no solid ground

But with windy seasons set their sail

So here my feet lose flesh and bone

Till my mind yields power to my soul

And all is gathered to remember Home.

My heart is righteous, I tell myself. 

I wash my hands and am not owned by wealth.

I have maintained singleness and have verses memorized.

Even my friends have told me that I am wise.

My heart is righteous, I tell myself.

How foolish! For it is as clean as a sewer’s filth.

Be I so blind and full of prideful disdain?!

Do all my misfortunes require audience and renown name?!

Jehovah Jireh, I have spirred my heart to muck.

Instead of purity, gossip from my lips is plucked.

All intention of heartfelt prayer has worn…My heart —

An angry heart does nothing but anger form.

Lord, forgive this boldness that I claimed as mine.

Return to me discretion and love that is solely Thine.

Why Take Them Young

(Reflections on Progeria – Inspired by a True Story and Information from the Text)

Your birth was smooth and a blessing, yes.

Young and frail, your parents

Cared for you in your helplessness.

Beautiful and perfect your face appeared.

Everything was normal that very first year.

Who knew your sun would not last long

Too near, too soon you would be gone.

Baby, by the time you had two years grown

Your body no more youth had known.

Conditions of older generations,

In you, found their maturation.

Fear not nor tremble, as your bones grow weak.

You may ask “why” when other kids run and not break.

Dear one, your heart is strong even when your vessels harden

You are losing a battle, but your war is won. Never broken.

Your DNA and very being refuse to recall your own age.

My journal of you hesitates to turn the page.

Only five years old with the head of your father

Too soon, too near, we will not hear your laughter.

My daughter, my son, your eyes look as if eighty years have gone.

You are prematurely aging and, by thirteen, it is done.

My dear child, I love you so much and you are not alone.

After this pain, you will be carried safely home.

You know this world is empty…

From its search for lies and smokey eyes…

When the surface is deepest and echoes are inside.

You know this world is battered…

From its razor scars and bleeding hearts…

When fathers abandon and mothers love the dark.

You know a world beyond genius…

From intellects still searching for truth…

When most profound statements have no “proof.”

You know the world has hope…

From the quest for cures and purpose…

When cancer’s death can be postponed.

You know this world has love…

From sacrifice, service, and self-less decisions…

When the crippled are carried and the weak made strong.

You know this world has light.

You know this world has reason.

You know this world with all its seasons.

It is His, His alone, and we are filled…

Filled with His passion.