Offering
I have bowed down, I have stooped low.
The idol that I carry is enough to crush me: it is my weight in gold.
A burden to the weary beast I have laid upon myself, atop my breast -
I've taken no relief or rest from this bondage.
"Listen to me," a stranger calls from not so far away.
"I will pay you for the load you bear, you need only give it up to me."
Laughing, I despise the offer, though sweat drips down my face.
Were I to relinquish this prized possession, I would lose what I hold most dear.
I fear what there could be to gain, and so I polish my idol again.
I speak to it, caress its face.
It knows no cares, nor feels disgrace.
Even though I receive no voice or touch in return,
I'll hold it like some weight of gold I earned.
In dreams at night I sometimes hear that stranger's voice,
Whispering softly to the essence of my heart.
The offer that I feel I only can refuse.
The offer of a choice - yet I can't choose
Save choose to cling to this terrestrial form.
Yet still the stranger watches, not so far from where I lie.
Salvation lingers and so do I.
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A paperless journey
Cacoethes Scribendi
"the insatiable urge to write"
About Me
- Kimber London
- I aspire to engage in the eternal process of the written word and by so doing join in the ranks of those who wrote before me.
CACOETHES SCRIBENDI
If all the trees in all the woods were men;
And each and every blade of grass a pen;
If every leaf on every shrub and tree
Turned to a sheet of foolscap; every sea
Were changed to ink, and all earth's living tribes
Had nothing else to do but act as scribes,
And for ten thousand ages, day and night,
The human race should write, and write, and write,
Till all the pens and paper were used up,
And the huge inkstand was an empty cup,
Still would the scribblers clustered round its brink
Call for more pens, more paper, and more ink.
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES
And each and every blade of grass a pen;
If every leaf on every shrub and tree
Turned to a sheet of foolscap; every sea
Were changed to ink, and all earth's living tribes
Had nothing else to do but act as scribes,
And for ten thousand ages, day and night,
The human race should write, and write, and write,
Till all the pens and paper were used up,
And the huge inkstand was an empty cup,
Still would the scribblers clustered round its brink
Call for more pens, more paper, and more ink.
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES
this is straight from your heart... and i love it. clever, raw, engaging. just like you, my sister.
ReplyDeleteI really like your mediation. I like the way it moves in and out of ambiguity of meaning, and I'm not sure if the person speaking knows this or not at first. (I'll call her 'she.')
ReplyDeleteWhen she boasts, "I've taken no relief or rest from this bondage," I'm horrified! "LET IT GO, NOW!!" I want to yell, but realize it's hopeless: she's still so proud of her 'PREcious.' I'm not surprised when she laughs to scorn the reasonable, generous offer of the stranger. She laughs, and reasons in herself that she cannot, for fear of loss, even though there is admittedly no gain. The horror is sensing the familiarity of the psychosis of sin, familiar to all of us, and awful here in how explicit it all is.
Wow...Kimber...pretty powerful. Very powerful. Surely there is a ministry for your words whether you go through that MA or not.
ReplyDeleteauthentic and true. Thanks Kimbo.
ReplyDeleteReminds me of Lewis's dunghill/holiday at the beach analogy...if only we knew what tresures will pour out when we let go of our tarnished and toxic idols. Sara
ReplyDelete