A poem of thorns pinned on bed of roses
Picture gotten from–Electricshadow
The growth of fear began in guilt,
well polished and hidden by lies.
Only those who feel for you,
read meaning into your choice of how you wish to pray.
I met a stranger,
I met her lost in thoughts of how she chose love over power,
how she neither sang nor danced with her lover.
The existence of crisis without Christ, how rhetorical it was.
I kept busy.
Ignoring the help that was needed from me,
The excuses for not reading the holy book pilled up.
“You only live once”, words enough for the foolish.
I made my own rules for the new era.
The peoples’ people era.
“Show me more of that dance! Kill me with profanity!”
“speak in pagan tongues love, that’s the only language I hear”.
The other world is coming soon,
unprepared as we all are in a hurry to live whilst living.
I imagine atonement sometimes, the impatience to be found worthy
the suspense of hell or paradise. Not so serene, is it?
What is this place? Who can bail me? What could I have done better on earth? Who am I now?
I found inspiration in fear, love and in meditation. I also thought of this place
where they hibernate,
where three languages are spoken in the same mother tongue.
If only we saw what’s coming before it came,
redirecting the pointing-fingers to ourselves,
refraining from judging.
If only we knew of this place, if it exists or not.
We’d be dining with God.
Tell me more about purgatory, but not here.
Dyna Ekwueme Copyright, 2016.