WAILS OF THE WRAECCA

PART VI: HERE TREMBLES EX-LORDLY NERVES

Blackness

Nothing but blackness

As if the Outer Darkness

Were All

And the All

Nothing

*

Last life glow

Aslant a narrow stone corridor--

Amber sheen on black-gray rock

Stretching toward the dark

Out of which I see

*

Assured of little

I guess beyond my prayers

--Mind too noisy to hear

The still inner voice reply

*

Nerves fray

From the mind's imperatives

--The spirit leaking out

From screaming dendrites

Befuddled

*

Assured of nothing

We paint a grimace

On the public mask

To see whose pity

We may take advantage of--

Certain then only

Of our assumption

Mercy's a

Masquerade

*

The steady mind withstands the winds

That swirl within the heart--

I have no such thing

And bend with each blow--

Blood drawing nonplussed limbs

Into the clinch of capitulation

*

Here trembles ex-lordly nerves--

Small demotions culminating

In an enormous shattering drop

Teaching this subject purity of prayer

And genuineness of contrition--

Learning for real how the Great serve

All--for All--

Abandoning the grand notions

By tiny innumerable breaks--

This withering rest

In the jitter of awareness

*

Hard to forgive

With your enemy still

Holding the blade to your throat--

Hard to forgive

Where hope has the heft of a breeze

Passing through a graveyard--

Hard to forgive

Who cannot forgive--contesting a faith

Not apparent in this unforgiving world

*

No prayer helps--

A moment's begging for blessing

Is overturned in the next moment's curse

*

Allow me to bypass my nerves

Which explode to undo

Any extended peace and calm

I can manage--

The undercurrent constant

And grief the perpetual lesson

Grief itself makes me

Too stupid to learn

*

How fear clutches my throat

When I imagine Your Will--

How the bottom drops away under my feet

With hope dashed and faith groundless--

Pleading for mercy brings its opposite--

And what heinous sin gouges such hard recompense from

What remains of my soul--

Here where fear and faith blow full blast

In my ordeal's foundry and fright and fortitude

Struggle on the foundation of my will--

I tense in this night

Of hooks and fire and headaches

Called up for this purifying scorching of

What remains of my soul--

In this dark night of Reckoning

May Your iron hand turn gold to heal

What remains of my soul--

*

Forgive a penitent's self-deluded prayer--

When vanity breaks

Spirit will remain still--silent--

Then will a penitent

Give honest tongue

If his wreck itself be the Grace--

*

In these long

Thorough days

Of tribulation

Love--like Grace

Is all the more

Fragile

Sweeter and more precious--

Scarce almost to the degree that

Pain and hate are abundant

Hold to your soul

And your soul

To its Maker

During these long

Thorough days--

Let not consequence

Deter your purpose

And answer the Judgment

With forgiveness

[End of PART VI.]

Content (c) 2008-2010 Philip Milito.