Being Bound

At first I was bound.
Like a hound to the sound
of his breakfast hitting the bowl.
Invisible chains restrained,
a harness to foil my refrain.
I made the locks,
clamped the stocks,
threw the rocks,
for from me and through me and to me I made up God.
God who was not there,
who was nowhere anywhere.
I formed him from my own,
clay from experience and what I’d been shown.
I made him strong and full of might,
so I dare not transgress what he called right.
I made him know all there was inside,
so he could find the inklings of my shallowest pride.
I made him deep and very wide,
so I could stretch and grow my mind.
I made him crasy and made him wild,
so I’d not be too close and trust his smile.
I made him fire, too good for me,
so in my failure I could feel his heat.
I made him to figure my fixes,
to riddle my tricks and
make me better.
I made him for me;
to achieve;
to believe
in something.
I finally felt the chains,
the scars from whips which I had made,
the hopeless burrow I had caved.
This God, this other than I
was a dying hole which
I dug deeper to try.
The sting of my pain
realized my gain:
I was nothing.
I had failed.
I was bound and knew it now,
for what we call good is what I sought.
The goodness of lessons and sayings,
of contorting so others will clap.
It deepened the distance between truth and fact.

At last I was bound.
Bound to God.
The one of existence, not of mind or mud.
The God who lives,
and willingly loves.
Under no obligation,
promise or fee;
through tribulation
tears and . . .
Me.

I am bound to forgiveness and bound to his grace.
I am bound for eternity, face to face

A Poem: 08-14.2011

Why do I stand,
stay?
Why not with whims
blow away?
Dissolved resolve
scattered like dust.
The rust grows,
pushing,
tilting,
slipping,
making many messes for maids to mull;
sucked away before inspected,
invested gators,
twisting traitors.
Teeth of a warm
menacing my skin.
The ache of a brake
deeper presses in.
Statistics gauge the revolt
accounting casually the casualties
like lifeless hope:
‘One here, one there . . .
No, he is gone.
Move along.’
Pale as pastels,
chalk another for reason
without conclusion,
logical confusion.
Desperate streams
sharing the razor road
rending the accident
a hypothetical code.
‘Ride out to see,
yes with only me,
what we could be!’
Potential diseased,
frightened to displease.
Plead with the wall,
willing its fall
to draw the curtain
full.
Hide the stage,
feel the sage
sure as steel.
‘Score, score and four.’
The star has ceased,
felt like a crease.
In time, when time
gives up.
The steps were kept
as we stood,
one beside the next,
existing.