Toward a Freedom (Faith's Falling, Its Failing)

Of your lackings, my laborings have not lapsed.
Though your kingdoms, nude of truth,
of images that distend, impede this heart, its yen.

The ceasing shape of belief;
the infinite feeding of tease, of all.

To piece the each severance of scripture and dream
I must cede this self...

and of your worth I am unwilling.

The spirit has known shadow and string, hope and hymn.
Enough of each to swim existence.

But as I vanish the votive mouth of nursling,
I envisage ignorance and incertitude;
all that is needs to assemble anew...

O deliquescence, remit me this revelation.


© Christopher Brandon Lancaster