They say,
beyond equivocation,
that we are what we eat
(so to speak)
or in other words,
what we embrace and ingest
spiritually, or mentally, or physically,
defines what we become, and how we feel
about our fellow man, and how
we interrelate with the world
around us
on any given day,
and how we extract and
express the verve
within us…

And since
my Byzantine self
struggles with the baggage
of bad choices (a lifetime of them
to be quite honest) and the idea that
being predestined - by a higher-power -
to experience melancholy; to struggle; to
suffer, and to battle daily against those who
operate only in jealousy and envy is somehow
a result of my bad choices, seriously limits
the potential of my personal dreams ever
finding any realistic fruition

So I ponder
alone in a desert,
unwilling to compromise,
and feel the arid wind blowing
and I ask myself,
can I become
more than just another grain of
sand in this cloud that buffets me?
Whose words do I believe, and whose
thoughts find (in me) a resting place?
If gifts have been given what do I do with them?
And if I am dissatisfied with being in the cloud
what kind of a grain would I like to be?

But beyond that,
aside from what I desire,
aside from what I believe,
aside from how I am perceived,
aside from whom I construe myself to be,
aside from what I personally see in the mirror looking
back at me … I have come to the conclusion that the more
that I question my life and death, or the meaning of existence,
or my place in the grand scheme of what is greater than I
could ever understand, the more that I lapse into the
depressions that cause me to make the
choices that suppress my dreams,
and inhibit those around me…
Selah …

Still… I feel a dagger
slaughtering my thoughts,
and a worm that never dies,
and a fire that is never quenched,
and the impotent self-consumption
that cannot do what it wants, when
it wants, to whom it wants, for the
reasons it wants …
So I reach out to touch you
in the only way that I know how,
to quicken your thoughts, and make
more malleable the wineskin of your heart,
hoping that I have not become the outspoken
homo-harbinger of another spiritual deception,
or the living newspaper of another’s conjuration,
or the colorless aberrant blossoms of a false spring, and
also hoping that I have not breached my individual calling
somehow in the awkwardness of artistic application

            richardlloydcederberg.com