Desire’s War

Posted on by Ink-Spilling Sword

I am still too long.
Again and again it comes,
like a war in the trench,
volley by volley,
an unceasing bombardment.

I fight, fight and die to myself,
Time and again and repeat,
chained to my rifle,
red from the fire,
rhe flesh minions,
soaking the ash-blackened soil.

Leave me be!
I will not stand
your presence-your
moaning wail
siren call
hellbound hail
I need none at all!
I need not your defeat;
There are no seats,
on the train of grace,
for your monstrous race.

Away with you, witch’s sprites,
temptresses and idols!
I do not want
your cheap trinkets,
half-minute pleasures,
short-stopped sensuality.
Your attentions are delicate
like the spider entombing her witless victim

God has set aside,
this one for greater glory;
He will not be had –
Neither Him nor His servant!

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Chained to the Pyre

Posted on by Ink-Spilling Sword

I love her — too much
Too much, too much, too much.
My passion burns in me
It afflicts me in sleep
In waking and at rest,
in my dreams, in my soul,
for her I burn.
I struggle against the chains,
But whose are they?
Have these I made myself?
Or have You placed these
that I might not stumble
into the irretrievable dark?

Lord, Take her place—
Consume me!
Make of my bones
kindling sanctified;
my blood — fuel
for the sacred pyre;
wreathe my head
in the sun’s flames;
set alight my lungs
with embers of holiness.
May my eyes burn,
shine and blaze a-filled
Full of light, of fire and
of grace and of joy;
The ashes of the old world feed
the green grass of the new.

May the saved dance upon Your weald,
rescued from their birth-destined pyre.
May I rest at last, there in your vale,
from these torments of the self.

Great is my God,
who saved from me myself.

For His Excellence, Labor

Posted on by Ink-Spilling Sword

Lord, I am tired.
I desire to labor
but my mind is short
of the perspicacity
which I demand

Lord to what do I labor
Your greater glory I
desire above all else
If not in heart then
in mind — in cold, cold mind.

Oh Lord why does not
my heart beat for You
as it does for her?
Oh Lord — why, oh why
why oh does not Your spirit
flood my heart to wash
all away which displease
Your Holy Excellence

Lord purge me –
purify the small man – the
weak man – the
pauper who thirsts for You
No more strife, warless days
Lord, quickly, come!

Consumptor

Posted on by Ink-Spilling Sword

Purge me of hunger
Not for bread
But for flesh

It gnaws       turns
tears      the screws
bites      ever tighter
twists     and tighter still
I want it gone!
No more         the flesh
Nevermore        as ash
It fades                  the cursed parasite
throbs and pulses and swells
like an abscess of desire
The hunger grows, devours
engorged upon itself till
it bursts and drains its human pus
into the mouth of Hell.
To Sheol it beckons me
a king and his son battled this beast and came to dun;
his name was David, son of Jesse
and his son was Solomon, Bathsheba’s son.
But they cast themselves upon Your mercy
They were spared the fire, though not the pain
and ascended they on high to rest
in Your Maker’s Hands.
Make it tremble, make it burn
Reduce it to ash
Put the flesh to the sword
and from the Consumptor’s gory pyre
arise the spirit saved to light.