We cannot measure
for Thomas von Kempen
We cannot measure
Those saved by the Word
But those fallen and assaulted
By, let's be clear, the Word
Seek a suitable time for meditation
On the saved who live in secret pacts
Hiding from the harsh world
By wrapping all in holy cloth
Never holding the courage
you must leave rather soon
or they'll cry 'get out!'
if you try on any more religions
torn, weary & grey
like many a tweed jacket
from St Vinnie's
they're never your size
and they humble your closet
The coals I carried for you
Who am I to deny your genealogy
in the form of commercial paganism?
Those earthly stars hardly match
the real ones just overhead now.
High voltage delirium found solace
in underfed unicorns
Why not turn inward instead?
streets to be littered
with deconstructing wares
no natural life-force
to engulf and spiral through
only the 'products'
computer chip fragments
replacing the 'sands of time'
and your lawless heart
cannot intend another divide
to break through
to bend through
to chew through
the adultery you commit
in your heart
such scarce ventures
but all of that skin
that you pace for
already bright yearning
in the shadows
of cold compunction
Clutching at air
Of course, all longhairs are assured
That you can't rely on anyone, for
Anything, for any length of time,
For any staidness in space, for any
Rapture dissipated out in a friend's
Offer a hand up to offer another life
In the desert to one inhaling dust, as
He denies the metaphoric futilities.
It isn't exactly life, but admit it freely,
If you were a sun-baked carrion, or
Simple fearing the marketplace. Here
Your soul would leap, forgotten by
Dealing, crushed by opportunity.
If this being does not transpire, we
Turn, after clutching at air, to Christ.
For the time-watched glory is there.
The baggage, on first sight, is slim,
He's travelling light, he'll soften
Those silly little whims.
But more so for the pathetic weakness
That walks on high without aspiration
Or pill. His shorn power as the lamb, not
As the holder of the keys to the lost and
Found box. The smudge of sweat upon
A clean, crisp page, a wrinkled face lit,
The joy of a crippled black pup.
Matthew John Davies is a writer and blogger from Brisbane, Australia. He has been published in Cottonmouth, Page Seventeen and Skive Magazine.