Patmos Isle

The life of a Pastor, one who has been beaten and left to die by his own kind.

Location: Texas, United States

I consider myself as one that has seen the dark side of humanity and has lived to speak of it.

Friday, July 15, 2005

A note to my friend Thomas J.

Thy hand is my mind, cut, wounded, and it causes me great pain. The words that I refuse to enter my heart they bounce back and forth like a ball with a chain. With every pass, they bruise much more and cut even deeper. I sit in silence thinking of how I might let them out, yet they bury themselves to only return in the night. I toss, I turn, I moan in my sleeping hours, I reach for that pill, so that these voices will sleep, yet I only find when voices sleep they only dream. Their dreams awaken my sleep and find their way into my rest, there they bring the chain and rattle it again, now I awaken to only find I have not slept.

I lay on my bed and reach for my lover, my lover sleeps and I refuse to wake her. I feel her turn and think she has awaken, to only find the night has brought her what the day had taken from her. I stare at her beauty and place my hand on her chest, I feel her heart beating and I know she is at rest.

I reach for that bottle thinking to myself, if one is not enough, then two will make me rest. I return to that void, where the voices have not left, I return to that place that sorrow needs know rest. I cling to the promise that He will never leave me, I see that table spread, but my enemies seem to be eating, eating from my table, my table of rest.

Was there not a promise that I should lay my head down and rest? Was there a promise that one would fight for me? I see His table, I see His pasture, I see His waters, yet the first is full and no room, one is not green and the other is not still. I raise my voice, and say to Him, stand upon this boat and speak again, speak they words... "Peace be still" yet my cry is weak and I fear His ear has grown deaf.


Blogger Thomas Jackson said...

You're a good man, and a good friend. Thank you for your prayers, your thoughts, and your words. Perhaps understanding isn't as incomplete as I dread.

Your writing is stronger than it's ever been. Keep at it; strength is beauty and beauty is truth, at least as far as writing is concerned.

10:00 AM  

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