Writings of a Sinner

For all sin and fall short of the glory of God

Month: January, 2016

Chalk

You lie broken in the tray. 

Each day you’re put to work, writing, teaching, explaining. 

Then they just wipe it all away. 

Like it never mattered. 

Pretending it never even existed. 

You left bits of yourself out there, and it’s swept away like dust. 

It won’t be too much longer until you’re useless and replaced. 

Replaced by another poor soul eager to please. 

Not yet knowing the pain of being dragged across the chalkboard to no end. 

Only to be erased from memory. 

Erased from purpose. 

Idle hands 

The dust floats through unconscious air.

With every waking moment, I fear that will burn me. 

I stir and I twist and I mix, knowing I’ll be left with hard bread. 

I fume and I flex and I growl, knowing that I’ll be dewed in cold sweat. 

I bite my lip knowing blood will come without sense. 

A concrete block could not restrain these idle hands. 

Float

Float on the pond. Not a boat, but a bubble. A raindrop is both your life and your doom. Do not test the wind, for it will test you. Delicately and carefully float. 

Glide through the air. Not a bird, but a leaf. The breeze is both your captor and your liberator. Do not hold back your breath, but rather soak in the rush. Humbly and wistfully glide. 

Swing your steadfast arm. Not a swordsman, but a clock. Time is both your reason and your rhyme. Do not fear the next pause, but rather welcome it with a tic. Patiently and courageously swing. 

Believe 

Believe in The LORD God. The Father Almighty who created you, the world you live in, and the heavens above. 

Believe in The Son who’s blood has saved us from sin, death, and the power of the devil. 

Believe in The Holy Spirit who speaks truth into your ears and fights the battle for your soul. 

Believe in His Word and humble yourself before Him. Joy and peace and comfort are freely given. 

Believe. 

Precision 

He stands up from his chair and counts his paces from the door.

“Ten? That’s it?” He thought. “I had expected at least one more.”

Maybe the room had gotten shorter, or his legs increased in length. 

Maybe it was a matter of effort, or a gradual loss of strength. 

One step could mean the difference between a win or a defeat. 

The odd hiccup in a dance that could throw the dancer of her beat. 

So after much thought he exhaled and arrived at the decision:
If he was to live his life in any way, it would not be without precision. 

Comfort 

Inching back towards the wall. 

The cold metal bites my warm bare skin with surprise. 

Heat radiates in waves into the wool blanket. 

It’s too much, I itch, I sweat, I search. 

Must I lie on the cold ground?

Must I live my life in a corner? 

I look high and low and find not a loving embrace. 

My eyes scour the visions before me but I find not comfort.