when we’re darkest

lines of the mind are                                                                           spilling

a dripping canvas at your loss.

confederate rounds wing through the air,

burning-turning into thoughts.

there’s an art to maiming

(a shifty little jump                                                               across)

part guerrilla warfare,

skinning helps you bear                                                   His cross.

within custom we are searching,

faithful children wander-                                lost

with dusty bones, we aim to cross

the valley of darkness

from where we fought

left alone to late-night brooding,

we’re chained and sacred slaves

to thought

left alone with Your heavenly lot,

we’re darkest

when righteousness

is wrought.


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