she tells me to get up and sing.
but that seems to go against everything.
singing is for things with wings.
i used to have wings.
i used to suck the marrow out of them.
but this passage of time . . .
this long, harrowing voyage—
with all its mysterious baggage—
has left me standing alone on a
platform in the middle of the sea.
i want to jump off the seawall.
why can’t the devil be saved?
if love is that big,
then why does he remain lost?
neither height, nor depth,
nor principalities, nor powers,
nor things present, nor things to come
shall separate us from the love of god…
is it because he is
one of the principalities?
one of the dark divides?
did he choose that?
can he choose not to be?
is he a he? an it? a piece of all of us?
is it that he/it/we will just never admit
to needing to be saved?
how long can wrath take the wheel
before it submits?
are we that self-destructive,
that self-loathing, that we would
rather die for an eternity than
admit we are broken?
i don’t know.
maybe this is why we get up and sing:
because everything else is just too hard,
and i’m tired of teetering
on the edge of nothing.