Can you remember,
If you put forth the effort,
The sound of the church bells ringing?
I’ve tried and toiled,
To muster all the effort I can afford,
But all I hear is the,
Dull echo of a song not meant for me,
Tolling for a past that can’t,
Find resonance in my empty soul.
I can hear the dulcet intentions,
Even feel the nostalgia,
Meant for another,
But it bounces off the jagged edges of,
What it means to be me,
Finding no home, no solace,
Until it inevitably fades into a memory.
It’s only then,
When the song is lost,
Leaving only the echoes of a place I could,
If only by force,
That I can trick myself into thinking that,
After all I can recognize your voice.
Am I alone in this?
My stupid and deaf quest,
The one you sent me on to begin with,
In search of what it means to be,
‘Cause all I’ve found is the mean-ing,
Of all the people I can’t relate to,
Not through any mistake of status –
No minister will ever call me their brother;
Instead they will find me their eternal enemy,
In a question of Why?
Which inevitably leads to a distinction,
Between me and Them,
Since I’m incapable of accepting love,
Without scrutiny of the motives,
That weren’t there in the first place,
Only born with my snide mutterings.
God, how I’d forgive you,
For the sins of your children,
If only you could entreat me to,
By the grace of You,
Be still in my thoughts.
But you won’t listen,
So I can’t hear anything,
Save the buzz of humanity,
So constrained around itself,
To drown out any explanation,
That you might be expected to deliver.
Are your children the problem, Father,
Made in your image,
Has their pride erased any semblance,
Of the subtlety of truth?