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  • Writer's pictureGarathe Den

A Host Unto Myself

There are so many things

That I can understand

I can comprehend the intentions

Of most every man

Except for myself

Silenced to command

I dug this coffin long ago

And now at its foot I stand

One step, only

And I would fall into eternity

Every emotion swelling

Consuming and then drowning me

Maybe there’s an end to this

Now that, I find, is comforting

Then an ocean of emotions

That do not mean a thing to me

Adapted and conformed

A morphing of identity

An illusion of myself

Conjured to an entity

Tried to let it rule

But it offered no serenity

Played me for a fool

As it turned into my enemy

Now I’m stranger than fiction

In a never ending story

This facade is getting old

And weakening it stands before me

Became a host unto myself

And I’m starting to ignore me

Because I know there’s more to life

Then the pursuits of self-glory

And so I sit here in silence

All my action in waiting

While the eager and impatient

They have gone on parading

Striving and struggling

All their efforts are straining

While I wrestle with doubts

I cannot cease in containing

Yet I sit and I wait

And my life still sees blessing

Where inaction is judged

I’m withdrawn from impressing

In discomfort I grow

Being readied in dressing

To hold the purpose of love

That I’m called in expressing

A vessel that’s been drawn

To be in outpouring

Lost to distraction

Complete in restoring

A heart never wavered

That’s One in according

To the life of our Christ

To be forever exploring

Internally changed

A manifest destiny

Love ever present

Taken to tenancy

Love as the action

The purest of tendencies

With a Host unto myself

That inhabits identity

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