This field of dust
People are solidifying their positions.
I’m being broken up like ground for planting.
The smell of seeds on the breeze, rust, roots
and soil; the song of yin and yang, gee and haw.
I’m no longer able to live with myself
yet here I am still breathing. Such is my dilemma.
Others are getting brittle over their little plots of truth,
taking up arms to preserve their sovereignty.
I’m walking the narrow lane between two furrows,
heading for that shade tree at the far end of the fence
line.
We are all less than the wind that buffets us,
blusters and dies, shifts to a new tack.
We’ve no abiding substance.
There is no me
to live with or die for, no life to surrender to my Lord;
nothing in this whirlwind to hold onto,
nothing to fight over in this field of dust.
O child of God, to enter the new life, first
note the improbability of your own existence.
No comments:
Post a Comment