theblackdostoyevsky

Blessed are those under pressure,
on whom His hand is glorified.
Ill feelings cloud the bowels and ride on days;
behold, a pale horse.
Walls stare back; the soul pleads
skin for skin.
God or mammon? Peace or war?
O wretched man, I am the war.

Blessed are those who wait in vain,
who cut their wrists with laser gaze,
frontal panic, manic, or near tears in rear
this gifted present a tightrope to
walk along, across death valley’s shadow
abyssal and narrow as
a needle’s eye.

Blessed are those whose knees are weak,
ankles palsied on shattered toes
Men politely scorn.
Women laugh tears of pity
and deliver mites of riches, tithes to
the health of their children.
The devourer rebuked, cigarette
smoke curled aloft from a stoop.

Blessed are those who know no better,
ignorance is bliss when evil reigns
better not to know than know a thing
David before Abimelech,
anointed as a lunatic.
Drip honey on my wisdom and I’ll
eat the seed, so as not to sow and
have the harvest plundered.

Blessed are those who take up the cross,
home aloft, so tortured oft,
strange pilgrims tossed like
chaff and dragged like silver’s dross.
Derision poured like boiled oil
They nail him like his master said,
witness his body writhe and part, but
know not the smile upon his heart.