God's Awful Grace

I'm watching the ravens outside my window in the rain. They're overdressed in their black ties, scouring the ground for dinner time. They don't see the treasure chest inside my rib cage. But God does. I've been watching too many war documentaries. I woke up last night and thought I was in a German prison camp. I was lost. But I normally am. I've found this out about myself. I am an island. And not in the clever way. I am an island. More so than anyone else I know. Maybe it's turning into a problem. But maybe not. I am an island. I am an island of a man, and I can't seem to make the wanderlust be quiet. I've made an enemy of convention. It tastes sour on my tongue.

I see your manger. I see where you sleep. I know someday we'll meet. I self medicate, and I need rest. This is my letter to you. My self-styled hymnal. I constantly test the mettle of my heart. I poke it with a stick to see if it'll snap. I grow weary of the lack of purity in all things. Then I see the diametric opposition and the gray ground, and I just get confused. Shipwrecks on the jagged cliffs of the sea. I don't "just get by."

My seeking leads me to be sought. I feel that. I try to have patience too. I really try. I try to mean what I say, and say what I mean. I need rest.