Stale walls contain no more answers than the dimly lit pavement rising to meet my clenched fists.
A shadow hangs below this last vestige of animation, threatening to pull me beneath the asphalt,
Embracing me to the cold, sun-forsaken hearth.
In the dark, blood fuses with the sweat and the taste it makes is something short of bliss.
To understand the sensation to be similar to what He tasted in His last;
A diluted red swell ebmracing my tongue with the delicacy of a serprentine vine.
For a thousand unanswered prayers to be caught up in the winds of despair,
Orbiting and propelling through the gutters and alleyways of our world asunder,
Would stir up such a gust as to remind us all of why the heroes lie in coffins beneath our devalued keepsakes.
Christ of crushed hopes, resurrect me.
Christ of heartbreak, mend where You see fit.
Christ of wrath, lay waste to my inadequacy in the way only You can.
Where apathy, awaken a fervor.
Where contentment, stir a fire beneath my feet.
Where shame, shine the light.
In weakness, make me strong.
In fear, may You overcome.
In words, may You speak.
In my cold, stale heart, selfish bastard of my supposed will, make a home.
In my heart, remind me what home feels like.
