The Quiet Touch of Christian Loyalty: A Personal Cryptic Manifesto

Quite a journey.  I prefer to bump into death in the light of day nor shrink behind the margins of a period I am not afraid of the dark... What greater darkness than what is done in the light of day? Blackness was oozing from their souls again. It grows inside until it finds a place to ooze out.  Kiss my cheek. I do not acknowledge the source, However, sometimes I feel it, Like when I tried to come back home, I found this poem in ...A continuation of my demise-ing. I burn.  They laugh.  Flames and burning fingertips, lessons learned.  LOL!  Oh, Lord. Cool your fingertips in a bowl of cool, clean water. When will it end?  In a poem?  In books?  On the other hand, will My life be nothing but a transient wisp of smoke across the face of my Fellow sufferers?  Although your tears are like ice and mine like lava,  I Know we have heart.  See mine. I press against another day: a wishbone!  Be careful what you wish for! I am here for you.  You are never alone. My memories die alive for a second time within the nights of my days. My will to die is alive more than death itself.  Nevertheless, I love you. And loving you loves me, even when you hate me. I must beg your hatred to sustain my love of self-hatred.  Why…can’t…you… Cry?  There is nothing here for you anymore.  You screamed you hate me. I was not supposed to hear it.  It is somewhere rumbling around in your heart.  But I have never even called you a name. Call upon mine.  I cannot blame. Not forgiving oneself is to walk more closely with the enemy and is more dangerous than running blindfolded with scissors. I guess that’s where your scars came from, idiot’…or so went your diagnosis.  The memories.  The pictures struggling for air Between my pages, sobbing for mercy.  Claw your way to the top of success on the soulless bodies of your hidden children.  History tells. Rummage the diary of my so-called ‘sick mind,’ like a garage sale for Poems.  I don’t ask for a good deal.  Name the price.  Such little faith. Searching for scattered pieces of my soul, trying to find them in your Works.  Can anyone translate a silent scream?  A beautiful flower begged the wind To rip its petals Free while the sun mercifully burned welts on its Leafless, wilted carcass.  LOL!  Steal My clothes!  It is my FAULT.  My Life was built on a fault line! The puzzle of symptoms, not too dimensional, is healed at the greatest Point of pain, yet Wrestles with the angel anyway.  Why do I fight the Healer?  Why must I first desire to be Injured to want to be healed?  You Call me by name, like a long-lost love.  Then prayers 'Sent the dove to Nestle' at my chest, its black eyes offering peace as I stroke its white Wings.  The breaking glass…ceases.  Thank you, God, for doing for me what I could not do for myself, for your sake, because you did it for my sake. Did your patience extend to now, or did you fall asleep three times? Let this cup pass from me, not as I will, but as you will. I love you.  No greater love...I go now.  See you later, friend!  Who do you say I Am? Who do you say I am? Written January 19th, 2002 © on Jan 28 2002 10:12 AM PST, Timothy G Cameron    _humor • abuse • adult