The Mortification of Me
And I am again overpowered.
All mind of mine could rage against,
yet I still fall back, snatched by this
impulse to do what I hate.
Mortified am I, taken towards
the dark of the spark that ignites
and I weaken; and I'm outside myself;
I am some body without a will or a
sanity for the sanctity I once longed for.
Voiceless, I am not who I am. I am silent
within the me that is not myself.
This is the mortification of me:
beginning and ending with you -
you unknown, body-less one who
enraptures me with life empty of
life. So I crawl out of my muck and
feel stuck once again in this cycle that
stifles every piece of my mind. Am I
to be enslaved to this white washed
cave that leaves me alone in the cold
waiting for love to come back to my
heart feeling filthy? I want to be free.
I want to stop asking for freedom. I want to be
past this so I can declare victory.
Yet here I lay, fetal and afraid of what
I've done and who I am.
This is the mortification of me:
that who I am is not what I've done -
that what I've done is not enough to
out-stain the blood that covered
everything and every me.
So I open again, a bird just as broken and
yet just as mended as I've ever been.
Through the ashes, I climb again
to that joy that I've known long enough
that every corrupt passing passes behind.
I may be mortified, but it was He who died
so that I may rise, as I must, from the dust
and live with a gust of wind ever-flowing,
always knowing: I am won.
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