Contemplation
My version of sitting quietly with God
Is no kind Eden.
Sounds, thoughts heckle,
Like skinheads in a bar,
Hating my couth look.
Stillpoint
Is a faraway shade moving in slow,
Ominous.
I dread the possession,
Yet seek it;
Eyeballs strain further within,
Socket flesh tight.
Like a dark whale rising
He comes.
And there’s no, no, no room for me.
I slap and flash and flail,
Occipital urgency
To get out, get out
Now.
Tendrils of dream climb my spine,
Like interweaving snakes,
Selfish helix, hemlock rising fast.
Did twin snakes coil Eve’s tree,
Not one?
I watch them come.
And plead for Him to find me
When they’re done.