The Horror of Realization!

The horror of realization!

We are, every one, another Job.

And The Enemy is given leave

To do whatsoever He wills. 

Only He cannot kill us,

When death would be a mercy.

Barred out of Eden, 

Barred into Gethsemane


We thirst! 

I am mad with it, in fact.

But The Master at every feast,

The Devourer holds the only cup

And the knife. These pains, 

I confess, I see, 

Are crafted so exquisitely 

Fit to my every particularity

Indeed, almost lovingly! 

The Lord is not the only One 

Counting the hairs on my head.

My frame is not hidden from either of Them.

There is no secret place! 

How old was Our Christ when He perceived

That His Body was every bread torn,

That His Blood was every wine poured? 

The Incarnate Word would comprehend 

Every symbol so much sooner.

Was He very young then 

To be So terrified?

He was a man in the garden,

But did a mere boy have to stare 

Into this decomposing maw?

I, myself, seem far too old 

To only just recognize 

That Life is some portion of living Death.

I faint and bleed out; 

The Leopard pursues. 

If there is another road, 

To even begin anew, I must first, 

somehow, be nursed, healed,

If it be Your will.

Lead on from here!

Only be sure not my will be any of it! 

For I rave, spit, and long to fade

With my blood into the ground.

I forget my Sainthood; 

I become a shade.

I only long for that dream I am waking from, 

I only weep to dream again.

-Veronica Boulden


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