Thursday is for Imperfect Prose: At the Eastern Gate
Verse I wrote last year during Lent...still thinking about it this year.
Shalom broken,
shattered,
rent in two.
Guarded now by flaming swords,
we stand on the outside looking in.
Starved for shalom,
grasping,
drooling,
eating stones for bread.
We cower in thistle and branch,
bursting the seams of our animal skins.
Eyes that once saw God
in the cool of the day
now watch cold metal ignite
with the glint of distant Sun.
Right and left,
back and forth,
side to side.
Shalom barricaded,
dead-bolted,
barred,
obstructed from view.
Hypnotized by swinging metal,
we dream awake of old peace.
Capturing shalom,
in memories,
glimpses,
ancient instincts.
Could we crash the cherubim,
lay siege on contentment?
Rotten fruit falls,
drops,
rolls,
teeters into sight.
Capturing for a moment,
our attention from the angels.
Slurping up shalom,
a dripping,
shepherd's
stew bloats our bellies.
Pretending we are full,
we nap at the eastern gate of Paradise.
with the imperfect and broken today.
