The chatter resonates off of plain-painted walls.
Friends gathered, communing.
Bread broken and water sipped,
a fellowship of souls.
Normally an extrovert thrives,
Excitedly joining in the bustle of conversation.
Today, from the sidelines, an observation is made.
There appears to be seemingly endless seasons of good-byes
and illness ticking its toll on weary souls.
The six or so ticks embedded in a child’s flesh
suck her blood and in the same gulp,
Faces dripping with festered blisters,
scalps scabbed from picked pincers,
lungs rattled with fluid,
and friends’ bodies swallowing dirt
tire Christian pilgrims.
Clinging to the cross,
the only hope and promise that salty etched faces
will glow with wonder again.
Christ never promised a life without suffering,
but its hard to press in to press on.
Growing up in red, white, and blue
We’ve drank the cup of lies,
the promises of comfort if only you strive.
Some labor and find the system beaten,
and the laborer’s disposition descends embittered.
A heart calloused,
surrendered, but still feeling an empty void.
Blunt objects imprint the skin,
finally prickling in sensation
to a mind and body gone numb.
Reciting verses and singing a song
haven’t erased elusive eschatology.
Church states with faith enough
you’ll reside in lighted peace,
a joy ushering praise.
What do you do when that all seems but a dream?
When you hope one day to arise from a nightmare of disillusioned faith?
When you finally wake into authentic reality
where Christ reigns
and our palettes aren’t spooned trivialities?
*Could use editing for comprehension. The flow is pretty good, from personal opinion. Title could be more inviting. An anxious mind, though fluidly expressive, sometimes does so at the expense of sense.