What good is a dead man in praising with his voice?
I am being pushed to the edge of the grave and brought face to face with the sharp edge of decimation by my own hand or by that of another bringing about the same result so pile on the pressure and load up on misery disguised as indecisive servants professing sanctified servitude with fingers crossed behind their back wishing for complete control effectively forming a fake front of covet worthy humility.
There hasn’t been a night devoid of tears shed from weariness or a day spent awake with conscious thoughts of purpose for such wondering steps faint with exhaustion leading the same falsely humble set apart servants toward our original destined path.
All we wish for is peace and solitude, defended from our oppressors malicious stare pounding our self-image with shame and anguish, digging and clawing deep for more tears and even greater self-pity to distract focus away from the steps being taken so carefully and painfully set to a pace lower than that even thought possible.
-On our knees crying out with phrenic voices for reprieve from discipline and furlough from anger hoping to move the heart of such an omnipotent influencer and praying to manipulate circumstance to turn our enemies away.-
Save our bones and revive our soul for endless hours no longer seeming as if time is passing but only now believing we will hold this posture forever or keep our hearts up to the task of walking and enduring and surviving and thriving and growing and being fulfilled in the knowledge that we are working toward our ultimate divine purpose and total contentment filling our lungs, here one day but gone the next so we keep walking and confessing and hoping and depending on something so much greater than ourselves.
January 17th, 2019
CRUSOE 