All that is wrong with me, to begin with,
is that my fingers are misplaced on the keys.
Not one word I tap out in this world has any meaning.
Knowing only dimly anyway, what I’m trying to say –
something beyond thought, worthy of the effort,
far greater than all the reasonable, measured
descriptions I might adhere to
concerning this mad riot of a world.
I’m not talking about poetry.
I’m talking about the walk of faith.
What I write might not come to sense on paper
but perhaps my fingers will remember the pattern,
the message I hope to better decipher and deliver
once it’s spaced out properly onto the page.
O child of God, truth in the world’s tongue
loses most of its power and accessibility.
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