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Impediments and obstacles

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Written by   347
1 month ago

The Struggle for Love, the Longing for Homes. So desperate to prove, that our hearts aren't alone. While death looms wherewith, to make dust of our flesh. We seek in a myth, our souls to entangle.

With a hero of hope, a rescuing source. To widen our scope, and give pith to our course. An unshakable tie, an attachment at the core. Which might silence the cry, that our hearts are at war.

With a pure set of eyes, full of fire and proficient. To dispel all the lies, that our souls aren't deficient. But it's not our mere lack, which causes most dread. It's the earth-shattering fact, that our spirits are dead.

Cut off from their Source, in a black alienation. Humanity's curse, for its rank insubordination. We just want our way, and to write our own story. So we plunge on astray, to seek our glory.

To play artist or muse, or idol or chief. Any self-styled ruse, to assuage us of grief. Any measure to show, a lasting significance. So that someone would know, our unique magnificence.

For our beauty's been blemished, and we crave a redemption. Of souls twisted and scarred, by fulfillment's exemption. But, alas, we will find, that search hard as we may. There's not one of our kind, who can carry the tray.

Upon which the weight, of our souls, has been laid. For who can e'er tolerate, are its gross debts unpaid? Such suffocating mass, of defects and ills. Pressed against the delicate glass, I of egos and wills.

Still more ghastly to bear is devotion unbound. For with millstone to wear, its master is drowned. Beneath a sea of foul yeast, and becomes the enslaved. To a hungering beast, to worship depraved.

For the heart is a tiger, and must have its fill. So it raises a man higher, with a kiss before. Not intentionally, of course, does it slaughters its idol. But of hurricane force, is this longing so vital.

And as pedestal turns, so quickly to the altar. Our wounded pride burns when our gods and alms falter. And the fire of its rage turns upon its obsession. Tiger crashes out of the cat, to reclaim self-possession.

It bites and it tears, what it once so adored. And pride no longer cares, if it kills its false lord. But upon such demise, the soul screams in terror. For it's broken its prize, and can't take back its error.

It begs and it pleads, to restore what's been lost. But at end knows it needs, to consider the cost. Of the damage untold, it has left in the wake. For hearts can't be controlled, with a gush or a shake.

No, men's hearts are like bombs, which so easily explode. Once the pin is removed, all past wrongs will re-load. So the prey becomes the hunter when the tiger attacks.

For he does not want her, to see what he lacks. As he, too, had put, her up there the wrong place. But now steps his foot, upon her shamed face. To now pulverize, as his own heart's been crushed.

To blind out her eyes, and to see her lips hushed. For with words idly spoken, she'd stabbed at his soul. And had left his pride broken, by her judgments so cold. She had not meant to harm, knew not e' en that he heard.

But one cannot disarm, a thought put to word. Worse than not knowing this, she no longer knew him. And her once imagined bliss, proved a nullified whim. Oh, what games and delusions, we play and we build.

Upon empty illusions, and dreams unfulfilled. Yet strangely it's when our worst fears come true. We can finally transcend, all those old tales we grew. Out of ego and void, out of sorrow and pain.

When our nerves felt annoyed, and our hearts felt too vain. 'Cause when the ego is puffed, it is primed, too, to pop. And with pinprick is snuffed, like a pest-blighted crop. So imagine much more.

When a venom's injected, right into its core. And its heart is rejected, but can you also not see. How it needs such a burst, to begin to get free. From its self-absorbed curse?

Except now feels the matter, of our soul's isolation. Fiercer still with the shatter, of our pet consolation. So we wait and we wonder if we've missed the true meaning, Of the frightening thunder.

In our heart's constant screaming, whether homesick or lost. Whether lonely or grieved, locked in bleak winter's frost. We find little reprieve, yet we know we've been made. For the glory of Spring, some card's still to be played.

Some grand songs still to sing, inexpressible yearning. For some secret, we know. But can't speak for the burning, repercussions of woe. Not some mere melancholy, nor nostalgic forlorn.

Not the musings of folly, but a sense that we're torn. From the primordial root, and headwaters fresh. Yet much deeper to boot, from our spiritual breath. 'Tis an ache not for wares, appreciation or fame.

But a fight just for air, against strangling shame. For we're naked, we know, and with all we devise. Our most flawed parts still show, To a pure set of eyes. Like we're walking around, with no covering intact.

But a thin hospital gown, with wide split up the back. So we hide our true face, aim to be what we're not. Work our blots to erase, lest our schemes should be caught. Be 't by a friend or by a foe, we dare not risk the pain.

Of humiliation's blow, on top of our stain, but instead of relief. Anguish grows louder till, this life's loneliest grief. Paralyzes the will, and last hope all but dies. On doubt's bed of despair, while embittered heart cries.

That its lot's too unfair, yet on the outside, we play. Through our unconscious mind, man's collective charade. That everything's fine, like some pact, we'd all sworn. To uphold and obey, to protect from the scorn.

Of society's sway, if we run with the flow. Instead of striving 'against the tide, we might make enough show. To salvage our pride, we forget that conceit. Is what caused all the mess, through a serpent's deceit.

And a couple's wrong guess, that was they first tasted shame. And then hid in a garden, sewing fig leaves as a claim. To secure their pardon, yet in horror, they knew. They had squandered the Prize and must flee from the view, of a pure set of eyes.

Ow the same state of awry. Runs through each of their seed, inborn and borne by. Like the thorniest, whose nettles pierce deep. And infect every part, while roots tangle and sweep, through the mind and the heart.

It mocks what we've lost, torments every dim hope. To constrict and a cost, like a noose-tightening rope. Still, hope won't be decayed, smoldering fires yet burn. Sparking hints that we're made, for bright Eden's return.

This redemption we crave is no phantom's false plea. But as a crestfallen wave, hides in the sea. It's been veiled in plain sight, big as all of our stories. Deep as mankind's full plight, and as high as its glories.

Cloaked in every ambition, that we have to get in. To some exclusive coalition, for its favors to win. Lurks a bleeding predilection, frustrated from birth. A desire for an election, to bestow on our worth.

Lured by the scent of a promise, to be chosen and known. Like the warmth of a mom's kiss, given only to her own. We search tree after tree, for sweet intimacy's nectar. From a fruit that will be, our secret connected.

To hope's nourishing breast, to life's honey from the comb. To an undying rest, to a straightway toward home. One to wipe away tears, and allay the deepest doubt. Which proceeds from worst fears.

Of our being locked out, Of a garden again. Cast from the pure tree of life, dim remembrance of when. Mankind first entered strife, all our conflicts, competition, confusion, and blame.

Find first cause in perdition, that's invaded our frame. Like the foulest disease, the most cankerous rot. Grown by monstrous degrees, hatched by Lucifer's plot. This story's nothing's attack, nor archaic folklore, but the earth-shattering fact.

That our hearts are at war, with a pure set of eyes. Full of fire and proficient, to dispel all the lies. That our souls aren't deficient, and it's not our mere lack. Which causes most dread, but the earth-shattering fact.

That our spirits are dead, cut off from their Source. In a black alienation, humanity's curse, for its rank insubordination. And yet... this is also the story, of how those same eyes

The Possessor of Glory looked with love and heart cries. On the crown of creation His reflection of Self-made His treasured nation. The heirs of His wealth, now broken and lost. All banished from Garden, and He knew the full cost.

To grant them His pardon had known long before. He had e'er even made, that first man of yore. Yet handcrafts anyway His love is so strong, and He wanted to share. His intimacy with a throng, His children to bear.

So with souls in convulsion, from their rebellious misdeed. Just before their expulsion, He promised a Seed. One untainted from sin, who could take its great boulder. And the weight of His kin, upon His shoulder.

A Hero of hope, a rescuing Source. To widen our scope, and give pith to our course. An unshakable tie, an attachment at the core. Who would silence the cry, that our hearts are at war? With a pure set of eyes, full of fire and proficient.

To dispel all the lies, that our souls aren't deficient. For those eyes are His own, and He'd pay the full fee. His body alone, to set our hearts free. He's hope's nourishing breast, His life's honey from the comb.

He's our undying rest, He's us straightway toward home. He will wipe away tears and allay the deepest doubt. Which proceeds from worst fears, of our being locked out. Of the Garden again, cast from pure Tree of Life.

Dim remembrance of when mankind first entered strife. But it was on another tree, that sweet intimacy's nectar. Was secured tight when He, became sacred Connector. And the thorns of our curse were pressed onto His head.

With not one there to nurse, as the Son of Man bled. Then the wrath for our sin was absorbed as He cried. And the foul curse was broken, when the Son of God died. But death couldn't keep Him long, nor His glory disposes of.

And we found our lost song when the King of kings rose! The debt had been paid, He had finished the work. The tide 'gainst us was swayed, we weren't left in our lurk. And we've only to now, just repent and believe.

To open and allow, our hearts to receive. Our Divine Fountainhead, our covering completely. To sup from His bread, and to sit at His feet. To worship the One, for Whom we were made. By Whom we've been won, whom forever we've craved.

The One Who can bear, our hearts' full devotion. The One Who won't tear, at our souls' raw emotion, the One Who will be. Sweet eternity's song, who with the lasting decree, will right every wrong.

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Written by   347
1 month ago
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nice informed

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1 month ago

Nice one. Every sentence is so nice

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1 month ago