Poetry: Some kind of Grace


Tried to put my life together one more time.
The advantage of time, you’ll just turn it to ashes again.
There’s no such thing as perfection, just a rejection.
Please don’t let me dig a hole I can’t climb out of this time.

Money is power and money is king.
So hard being a material girl, when you haven’t much treasure.
But we survive the days of little wealth, and find in comfort
“I can survive on my own, I can live on what I have, and that makes it okay to
Want what you often must turn your back on.”
But digging holes is what I do daily.

Your choking me now with the thickness of black smoke
That acrid taste that leaves fire in my mouth.
I’ve burnt another bridge, How long before I burn?
You can be forgiven a million times, pray to heaven,
And be replete and renewed in forgivenesses’ blissfulness.

But sometimes you beg for contrition and it’s not a pretty sight.
Pray to not sin those sins again, but sin works in “spirals”
And takes the sinner from “pride”to “despair,” and there is nothing in the middle.
For no one can contain the soak of poison into our veins.

Vanity, is a place I often lie, and think about the beauty that values things
More makeup, more contour, more glitter, more perfume.
Live the life of luxury or step down from your tower and just be human
Pretty and forget to be vain, but vanity and pride sit together as twins
Dig another hole, die another day, live and let live oh but for the propensity of sin.

To touch everyone and everything.
Make them mad again, play my hand again, lose their trust again.
I can only make right what I have confessed, else I’m caught in wrong doing.
Else, I’m sucked in by the twisting of what is good.
When Eve took the apple she sucked and “she ate,” I ate it with her, she should have known, mother of all. That witch!

And I aim for a life where I can have more control because I have less of it.
I aim for a life where it’s okay to smudge your face and pick yourself back up.
Be a little kinder, help a little more, and I find God in the strangest places,
Coaxing me on, let go of everything, come follow me.
And I stumble along contrite for a minute until I twist my ankle in some unlikely hole.
I should know where it is, I was the one who dug it.

And I know moments of grace, undeserved and glorious,
But I’m always searching for that little bit of hope.
Where grace clothes me and I’m adorned, a creature of sin,
Once rejected and torn, now I sit at my father’s heels and I’m content.
No longer forlorn. I am accepted a stranger no more.
For my time…and in eternity forever.

Works Cited

– Milton, John. Paradise Lost.

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