The Feeling

Its really just the feeling.

You know the feeling,

        

        when out of nowhere, everything hurts

        

        and nothing makes sense. 

The strange and sudden feeling, 

        that everyone around is 

        unfaithful. 

The feeling, 

        that those closest and most dear

        are out to get you

        as even your perpetrator of old. 

Why is this ancient narrative

        reenacted in ways more horrifying 

        than even Golgotha?

Why are our streets filled

        with the rape-screams of innocence scattered?

Why do the bounds of perverted intimacy

        in Your fallen garden, O Lord, 

        know no end?

How long O Lord?

How long til your perichoretic power

        pervades the filth of our nation?

How long til Word made flesh

        is spoken so closely, 

        that Holy Breath is perpetually felt?

How long til songs and sonnets

        no longer serve as sacramental lament, 

        but are freed unto their ancient mirth?

And yet you remain. 

You remain the Source of holy desire, 

        when my heart can't feel it. 

You remain the Bread of life, 

        when my mouth can't taste it. 

You remain the River of living waters, 

        when my soul can't drink it. 

You remain the Tutor of my theology, 

        when my mind can't savor it. 

You remain the Light of my creativity, 

        when my being can't express it. 

You remain the Flood of my emotion, 

        when I am overcome. 

Son of God, son of man, 

You are that truest feeling, 

        that remains.