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A stone's throw from grace,
but he never quite gets there
Always something out there
pulling him back in
He reaches for Heaven,
but can't seem to make it
No rest for the weary
in a world full of sin
He battles the devil
that's always inside him
no matter what form
it takes at the time
It's just that the bad
always seems to be winning
A whirlwind of sorrow
without reason or rhyme
There was once in '69
the fight nearly killed him
It was thirty days in jail
that kept him alive
Now he's not sure
just what it is keeps him going
Some damned drone of a bee
always back to the hive
One year in his twenties
he thought he'd caught her--his Grace
but the stranger within him
took the love from her face
Now, he's just a man
who fell through the cracks
with grace just a memory
a weight on his back
Grace is a word, an idea, a concept, that I always find myself returning to in writing. I'm not sure what fascinates me so much about it over other concepts. Do we find it or earn it? Stumble over it in the middle of the road or work until we drop for it? Or maybe it's a combination. We work like hell for it and then, if we're lucky, we just happen to run across it one day.
3 comments:
I enjoyed this poem.
Thanks!
You can't earn Grace. It's a gift beyond your ability to repay. After you receive it, you'll work trying to anyway. The best you can do is share it with others.
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