A Means to a Beginning (a poem)

We always danced in the summer,
To the best of all your favorite songs.
Back when everything felt new and the end felt far out of reach.

And sure maybe the mosh pit on the dancefloor in the middle of prom was a bit much,
We didn’t care. Let them grimace, let them stare!

This was the time of our life,
A glorious beginning with no end in sight.

We were young and reckless,
We sucked the marrow out of life.
A glorious beginning with no end in sight.

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Except maybe we were more fragile than we ever believed.
Maybe I could never see an ending because I wasn’t looking.

And the song plays on.

Like summer days that seemed twice as long.

And I, the feckless youth who strayed from his home,

While the more responsible few filled every pew,

 

Always praying that their sons will be like their fathers,

And we pass on those expectations to our sons and daughters,

 

When we grow up and catch responsibility like a disease,

You’ll find us begging, pleading, (PLEASE!)

That we all find an escape from living like prodigal sons and daughters,

Those who gave up chasing after the image of the Father,

Trading it for disheveled pleasure and pointless fodder (or white-hot pain, coursing through feeble veins.)

 

Jesus, I’d always believed you were a means to an end,

Producing righteousness in me and paying for all my sin.

But maybe you are instead a means to begin…

Like, at the present moment I can’t see all the mysteries that you have for me or understand why silver cords snap without explanation.

Like, maybe life is is more about breaking until you bend,
And only then is there any chance to mend.

I believe in the beginning, in a hope that does not end.

So let change come with the changing of the leaves and the crisp, cool air of Fall…

And I fall on skinned knees asking, begging (SAVIOR PLEASE!)

Give me joy, unparalleled pleasure, and unbridled enthusiasm at the realization that you are at the beginning of every end and I need is all you mean to me.

Let me glory in suffering because I know you hold every new beginning in the palm of your nail-scarred hand.

Daybreak.

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Author: panicpreacherpanic

I am not good.

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