I suffer under the burden of my own introspection
The weight of which is like unto lead
Or perhaps in Egypt I carry bricks
With every thought I have.
I have been hard on myself when I should have been soft
And soft when I should have been hard.
And the feeling of failure that snatches my joy
Is another brick thrown on my back.
“Have mercy on me!”
I cry in the evening
I whisper each morn.
There has been a cleaning,
it is a fire that burns me
my mistakes burn like fire
each success is a flame.
And everywhere I am consumed.
“The weight of which,”
Do not delay
Long expected king.
I have been to market and to church
and in the coffee house I have discussed
all of knowledge that I knew
and then I took a sip.
There is a burning.
At the concert hall I sat down
And listened to the works of man
and all I heard was God’s own voice
in every perfect note.
There is a fire.
If I sing in our church choir
will I feel the hand of God?
Or am I filled with fool’s desire
to trip and fall again.
Let me be so consumed.