Friday, September 17, 2004

It is Well.

His words all hit me like bad cliches,
Variations on a theme that I've heard played
Too many times by those more skilled than
This, someone trying to reduce the meaning
Of mystery to an easy-to-digest placebo for me
To swallow, attempting to play head games with my heart
That's in need of much stronger medicine...

It's not his fault. I blame the ones that
Failed to tell him that no sackful of sugary phrases
Can nourish someone who's starving for something
A little warmer, a little stronger, a little more bitter.
All of his "Things'll be better" and "Look on the bright side"
Spoonfuls go down like syrupy razor blades.

He asks me if it is well with me,
Looks into my eyes to see into my thoughts;
All I can do is stare at the blood on my hands
And my own dead body on the floor
And whisper, "It is well with my soul."


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