What Kind of Betrayal?
There is power in your playthings—O my Yahweh—as I listen to your people sing their songs—
Were I an artist—O my Yahweh—I would touch your playthings—light up full spectrum—
I would throw my other hand to the beggars—to the seekers—your power to light them, too—
O my Yahweh—O my yearning heart—the love you have poured out—my joy and shame.
I crumple in my shame—my wantonness—all for me—I frown upon the One I hold most dear—
I trust any fool to make me sick at heart—to thrill me to the inner pain of sorrow—
You sorrow for the frown yet look upon the one—in stumble—in struggle—in deep—
Doubting you because you love the one unworthy—or loved so deep it hurts—myself—
My love misguided—hugs thrown upon the vanity of what my Yahweh hates—egocentrism—
The slimy grubs of flamework patches have attracted me—chewed me up—supped upon—
With hot breaths of Shakespearean intensity—have eaten me—egomastication—
My choices claiming ownership of me—giving back not a whisper how own I them—
Not yet—not till my Yahweh betrays their inner springs and workings—
When his love proves to be the very flame of Yah.
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