Destiny of the Dedicated

28 Apr
a shaved head, I grind, 
eyes jabbed blind
the unseen, still perceive
so fly to hold the blood-stained tree
for I've no recourse bearing me to cope
because I have been reckoned as already dead
and seek the resurrection bread
of the empty vault, but presently ahead
even if the word doesn't rhyme in time 
or in my benighted mind
I cannot continue the same 
--for 'son' is in my name
for what a flaming shame
I once became

but the childhood secret grows back
therefore no omnipotent strength I lack
opting to renounce all
like a bull catapulting from the stall
embracing the pillars of my call
should I skip over that(?)
living a life that's going flat(?)
or bemoan a Philistine's lot(?)
while grumbling for the wait(?)
         I'm destined to be great--

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Posted by on April 28, 2021 in Poetry, Spirituality


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