The rags of time
The guttering rain of home
Stains the memory
Longer than churches
Is it duty to devotion
Or devotion to duty that keeps
Me standing in this field of ripe poppies?
At a loss. I don't know
How can we translate this chaos
The grammar of suffering
Lost in translation
Faith no longer floods my mind
My mind reminds me
That my veins are clogged with curdled liquor
And all is as it was before
Bloodstains on a wooden floor....
Leading to a locked and bolted door.
I stray away
From the empty promises of home,
Embed myself in this fraction of a day.
Remain the same for hours, minutes, days, drift away,
Escape a jarring remembrance of a past
Too raw, too ill-begotten, for this sunny day to last.
Christ, you send the rain on the just and unjust alike,
On our good and evil selves. You see straight into
The hearts of men who do not bend or falter.
You teach me to paint a mirage of hope
In this sandstorm of brokenness.
And to believe that the image is true.