As the death flows through me,
I die.
At reach of nature's end,
I see a light yonder still,
then I gaze at thee,
He who be most high.
Until I come to full revelation:
this is not light but the Lord,
for the light is the dimness within which he stands.

I step toward the gates,
[they] shimmering in the light of the Lord.
I look upon myself.
basking in full light;
I am naught but a shadow,
A dark void in place of man.
I step toward the doorman,
ready my bribe of penance.

I stand.

Silent.

I wait.

“My son, My son;
where hath you been?
I waited, I watched you,
I saw you fall and raised you up.
You have no blemish,
you have nor hurt.
In all that you do,
you do it for me.”

The image of darkness still burdens my mind.

“COME TO ME MY SON!”

The voice, I turn;
I look for a beacon,
one that is not myself.
I look at the dimness of crowds,
I seek to see brilliance.
The voice:
Full of love,
full of joy;
He waits.

I step toward the doorman.
I step toward the gate.
I step toward the side.
Who am I that I should enter salvation?
I recount my wrongs,
I recount my sin.

“My SON!
Why do you stand at the gates?
Why do you stand before me?”

At last the judgement I deserve,
he hath spake to me,
the ultimate gift.
The Lord, whom radiates:
before him light is dark,
knowledge is ignorance,
love is hatred,
life is death.
But I am not his son.

That he should call me to the pit fires,
I am honoured.
Why do I stand before him?
Why do I stand in shame?

I ready for the fall,
I ready for the jump,
(my honour will not warrant a push).
How does one jump down,
without first rising up?
How does one jump down,
without a gap in ground?

The push.

The hand knocks me,
I fall – the heat starts to reach me,
I bask in the last feelings of comfort,
the last feelings of free delight.
For now I rightly join the damned.

“My Son, My Son.
Do NOT stand at the gates!.
Do NOT stand before me!”

I will a bow,
a face-planted humility.
I will a place among demons,
a torment with no end.

“At the gates I can not embrace you,”
To whom doth the voice speak?
“On my lap is where you sit,”
Does he seek to sadden me,
with praise for another?
I gaze in arrogance,
for his son – Christ.
I see him yonder,
outside the range of speech.

I gaze in arrogance,
for his servant – Peter.
I see him yonder,
outside the range of speech.

I gaze in arrogance,
for his daughter – Mary.
I see her yonder,
outside the range of speech.

I gaze in arrogance,
for his bard – David.
I see him yonder,
outside the range of speech.

I gaze in arrogance,
for his... – anyone.
I see all yonder,
outside the range of speech.

O! The torment hath begun.
I have yet to leave the court,
and punishment now ensues.
I re-live my death through sin,
I re-live my dim delight.
But he should speak of love,
when I am not possible to love.
The first of eternal damnants.

“My Son, My Son.
you are perfect,”
torment continues.
“I see no sin upon your life,”
torment continues.
“You must not stand,
for a guest does not serve on foot,”
torment continues.
….

“Matthew,”
sarcasm, the lowest -
for now I shall definitely enter flame.
“You have been saved by the blood.”
now I shall definitely enter flame.
“Open the book in your hand.”
I look for a form,
I find a radiating book –
the heat source of my anticipatory fear.
I open it and therein lies:
my name,
my age,
my birth date,
my family,
my friends.
everything that I've ever done,
everything that I've ever thought,
everything that I've ever experienced.
With one lack:
by the book's (false) account,
I am perfect.

….

…. ….

There is no response,
I sought to retell my sin.
I search for a pen,
in futility.

“This says I am blemishless,
this says I am free (of sin).”

“And it does not lie.”
selah.

“You are MY Son.
Mock not my mind,
I know you are my son,
I know you are to be welcomed.
Welcome home,
MY SON.”

I am positioned on the knee,
the knee of the father,
my father.
“Abba, father!” I cry.

“Call me Dad.”



Jahweh.

Mentieth.
Thank you for reading.

Tell me what you think. (Yes, I did write it)