Without the mirror of acceptance and intention we are left never knowing that within our own hearts reside the seeds of imperfection. When I was the problem casting blame on others became the cover up and resistance to solution. Until the maturity of moments measured become acceptable diet and discourse in refinement, I will be forever lost in a story of my own concoction.

Offering up the plight and pleasure of my humanity upon the dais of separation from the Divine. My rust and poison remain hidden from the scalpel that would cleanse my heart of ailment. How unclean the dependence of man upon his own righteousness. To be led to pain and slaughter displaying the outstretched neck of all those suffering in our displeasure. Not God, but godless.

How stand the man who sees not his own face each time looking upon reflection? Walking away oblivious and dangerous to all who find his council. It is not without the Lord of Ages one finds his wounds that cannot be succored. But in the presence of God we see our lack of measure.

For simply akin to the simple and un-Godly my mind sees nothing wrong or off the beaten track. The wagon falls oddly wobbling as the ruts run deep and seasoned. The mud and grit perfume familiar to my footfall. Without example or word from beyond the veil of man’s gibberish we are left to pronounce ourselves supreme being of short masses. Thank God He chose not to forget me. As all too soon I will fail to make mention of His name.