Your dimly lit eyes flicker
with the images on TV.
Stories run through you ,
illusions of an imagined certainty.

Deception has extinguished into reality
and left the smoldering coils of struggle,
that now lodge themselves in your mind
and fixate their claws in your chest,
leaving you breathless, alone
and thirsting.

Truth floods you,
warping everything good and right
into torment.

You concentrate on your book with intensity,
in attempts to shut out the impending sentiments of calamity,
which agitate the paper beneath the print,
making it difficult to comprehend the words.

Are you strong enough for this existence?
Is this brokenness healable?

My rage and sorrow are not for you,
even when it seems that way.
They are for this sickness
that consumes your goodness
and threatens to diminish us
into fragments of frayed failure.

Is my faith enough?
Am I enough?

I quiver in my weakness,
knees bowed with the weight of this cross,

I am not afraid
of this evil.

I will become the enemy
of this disease.

I will pray
for deliverance.


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