john the savage

I never thought that God could shake my soul
like a back-breaking sob rattling through my chest
as if the sacred heart of the yet-unborn Savior
touched the insides of all my veins and traveled
through the labyrinths of my capillaries.

I have fallen before,
and I know I will fall again.
My conscience birthed itself
into a life of original sin,
and sometimes, my breath
is too short to reach for redemption.
I am weak, and I must admit that
there are days where the feeling of duty
weighs down heavily like a calling
I cannot answer.

It's late at night.
I have found myself restlessly
re-reading Job 6:11
because babe, I swear;
I know am not perfect,
and I know that will fail you,
but the Lord knows how hard I try,
so it makes me question
why you still put me on trial.

It makes me want to ask Him
why He disfigured your beautiful soul with skepticism;
marred it with pessimism worthy of atheists,
because every time I see your jaded stormy morning irises
contracting around my optimism, all I can bring myself to do
is desperately try to kiss away your negativity.

There is no greater tragedy in this world
than attempting to bring hope to a cynic
irreversibly set in his ways;
someone who claims the right to be unhappy.

Sometimes, I wonder if you know the reason
I run my fingers gently over your shoulderblades.
There are feathertips on your back,

and gorgeous,
I know your wings are as broken,
but all I want God to do with my life
is make me your splints so I can watch you fly again.