"I believe in Christianity as I believe that the sun has risen: not only because I see it, but because by it I see everything else."
C. S. Lewis

Saturday, July 18, 2015

The Life Determined to Fail

Some, indeed, are grateful to discover a friend.
For such, a fellow soul who understands what it is to carry the burden of life,
hope and heart,
a soul who cares and even looks beyond the countless blemishes to see the imprint of God, is a gift to be cherished as a great treasure. For do not all know that where your treasure is, there will your heart be also.
Alas, not.


What of the deformed soul that, even with cunning, returns friendship with treachery?
What of the soul who is determined to redefine the kindness of friendship as though it were an outrage ? Kindness as malignancy.

Think such, that a friend be no less than an impending danger,
one who shall surely bleed the self-desire from you,
for such, all know, are able to draw near the center--the heart.

But impoverished folk, those who hold their fearful, selfish being in deaths' grip at the center of all,
know that the friend has the power, once given, to approach the heart, (God knows what they may wrought)
while a heart, to such poor folk, could certainly be no more then a target to destroy one's self affection.

But pity, I say, such a soul so empty and bereft of any life, any hope, any love.
Love such a one for his desperate need, though unseen.
For if we do not love, this kind dies alone for all eternity, and we shall surely follow.



Saturday, July 11, 2015

Face to Face

Books and plays to build desire,
Garner hope, a dream, and stoke that fire,
Place flesh upon a storied promise,
Sine children spy we another auspice.

Extinguished stars and starlets played their parts,
demonstrated their practices and skillfull arts,
A character to play, though few before would truly walk,
Drama no man dare mock,
For we do sigh, and weep and groan,
For that love which we have never known.

A trick? A fable? A Fairytale?
To comfort and defer the hunger, Yet a faint fragrance we insatiably inhale,
The story intended to pacify,
We grasp and hope for breath to live and die.

But like that of Homer and Ulysses,
tails of Shakespeare and Aphrodite,
All grow old for all are but story,
Sweet to the ear, but no more than fantasy.

Union a pleasant substitute, and children grow,
Shall we try once more, be tossed to and fro?
Is war and hate our only honed skill,
And self-esteem our singular unsatisfying thrill?
Is love a story, a phantom dream,
And His death held in such low esteem?

But late, when we were all but spent,
drew others, trembling, doubtful, to make the long ascent.
A chance, hearts ready to be once more dashed,
The others too, their hope prepared to return to ash.

A chance, a moment, a time in space,
We find His children, love waiting, face to face.

Face to Face, by MachiavelliCro