CONTRITE HEART

My soul is waxed dry in search of rest like restless souls
Left for dead hung on the crucifix of my own vanity.
Ridicule by demons, I can hear them bickering,
I hear them chanting a new song-as they drink of my tears, their glasses are full of my foolishness.
Handled into familiar positions, by Un-familiar persons, in familiar places, with familiar spirits. Having become familiar, by (familiar “eyes” ing) myself, I mean fill-in-my-eye with lust.
My eyes lead me down a yellow brick road I am promised Oz,
I have been down this road before
There is no light at the end of the tunnel, but with a foolish hope I march on
Not to a land of milk and honey, but to a valley of UN-satisfied satisfactions and thirstier thirsts. A valley of hopeful hopelessness.
I drink from her passions, I’m hoping for rest, promised incomprehensible relaxation,
But comes the morning after,
And the dew of her brow is glued to my skin.
My hands are stained with incriminating evidence, they are judged for idol worship. The penalty is death, the sentence my adolescent imprisonment.
As my body quivers, I feel not the quietness of a mid summer’s eve
But the roaring of the deep sea, my bones are grinding against one another
Groped by guilt, shame and indignation; this must be how de-feathered birds feel.
No longer a lustrous peacock of a man, now, brought low by the abuse of pleasure
I now eat with pigs, my inheritance nearly spent on fleeting luxuries, and grandiose drivel.
Where have my days gone, Oh son of the morning
My soul is waxed dry, counteth not your glory that I be delivered?-have ye closed thine eyes, and bridled your ears from my cries of anguish —-
Or is it because these tears of mine are silent,
I am affluent in shame, and in need of rest, please with haste deliver
Send out the troops, may Calvary’s trumpet sound loud throughout these barrens walls that bear no fruit.
With arm and hammer may my oppressors be nailed down and their stain removed. With arm and hammer oxy-clean my soul white from coffee sin stained mugs.
Come liberate a captured soldier, reclaim the stolen blood diamonds ransacked by white horses on black boats forced to mine and forfeit their heritage to a Uncle named Oppression.
Award to me the freshness of joy, give me victory over my greatest enemy, me
That I might win the war raging in my heart
Show me he, that died for they, lest I ever forget the songs of my people chanted till sore met their throat, and lack made them croak —
Left for dead hung to the crucifix of my own vanity, Lo
Your blood has not run dry yet, Selah.
Ibrahima Yansane