Life, whispers against deaths tide, Death remains successful

Control.

Of my body? No.

Of my soul? Perhaps.

Of my mind? Yes.

Grow new teeth, change my hair color with pure will,  or stitch a second heart?

I have tried, many many times, yet I remain unsuccessful.

My unseen soul swims, somewhere within my body?

Where?  Where?  I want to see it.

I can’t, so

I am silent.

To understand what is, light swimming in dirt?

I have tried, many many times, and I remain unsuccessful.

This body, a heavily glued, warm dust ball.

My wet blood pressurizes the the glazed soil, I carry.

For now.  I am a clay pot.  Where is the light?

It is dark.  I am dark.  I feel the light.  I want to see it!

When hundreds of years go by, and my dust is scattered,

What will survive the decay?  My soul perhaps?

Light crawls out of bodies when they die?

Who sees it?

Instead of widgets, could I make a factory producing,

Souls?

Love?

Forgiveness?

I consider, for a moment, God.

What is sin?  Is it a tarred mass on my soul?

Is it a foul green mist, that corrodes my halo and harp?

Is my life a widget factory, perverted into an assembly line,

Of filth?

Of poison?

Of Unforgiveness?

I wonder, for some time, about Jesus.

Swirling dust, wraps around blood and breath,

that can clean my soul?

A scrub?

A dunk?

A wash?

I wish I could look through the dirty window, and see,

my soul hanging in the steam of the dishwasher.

Would it smell like lemons, when their guts spin in the garbage disposal?

The blood of God’s son, rolling thick, down the hidden drain,

of my soul.

Would smells of rotten meat, and forgotten milk, be erased?

How? I want to see it!

I am simple a sack of dust, yet my mind is obsessed with the unseen.

Am I soil, without soul?  Am I soil, held in a clay pot, tan and fragile.

Is my soul a seed?  Is it made of white light?

Lightning in a cloud?  Or a false dream, lost in soil?

If the Great Gardener, sends his son, to spill hot blood on the empty soil,

Will something grow, clean, and lighted,

beyond the soils last dusty breath?

The invisible souls harvested…

Warm orange blasts within morning light,

crawls over the horizon,

white light breaks through soil,

breaking fragile clay pots,

Clouds of lightning,

smell like lemons.

A souls successful cleaning.

 

Copyright © 2017 Zachary W Gilbert

 

 

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