the dance of the ink riddled fingers

feeble feelings, emo emotions.

Posted in 52 pickup, the poet-tree by enisea on 26/01/2010

I often complain that
Neither materials, nor wood, nor bronze, or iron,
Nor friend, nor family suffice in comforting
Or offering shoulder enough to cry on

Yet if I were only to imagine
The unimaginable capacities
Of joy, of glee, of genuine worship
Unattached to condition and mortality.

Then silenced, as soon as cried
My complaints would die
These crocodile tears of unsatisfied hungers
Opposed to being heeded, instead – courageously plundered.

Wallowing is for the weak. I am weak. But cannot afford to be. Too many children look up to me.

For the eyes of the LORD range throughout the earth to strengthen those whose hearts are fully committed to him. [2Chronicles16:9]

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