The Rubble

August 9, 2020

I sat down with my Rubble
to see how far I’d fallen,
to feel the finality of the broken things,
to hear the voices in the still dark silence
of a coming dawn

I planted myself in the eye of the wreckage,
owning the central cause as Myself

I readied my battered heart for another beating,
the relentless lashings of shame’s minions
who torture endlessly

I yielded to their arguments
I gave each allegation a central stage
from which to speak

I urged them all forward,
rousing each to step forth and
own its charge against me

I stayed my hand from shield and sword

I removed my armor,
stood naked and bare,
allowing the arrows to not only fly
but find their mark and strike true
at their desired target. 

I felt each stab.

I gulped the air for breath.

I fought the urge to issue flight and counter.

I found my strength in the staying,
in enduring Failure’s reckoning.

And when every quiver was empty,
when the only sound was my trickling wounds,
I roused a final strength and shouted,
“Are there any others? Speak NOW,
or are you a Coward?”

I heard a sigh so gentle.
I heard the truest groans. 
And I beheld a god now fallen;
his wounds, somehow, my own.

He sank beneath the rubble.
I watched him fall and die.
I cried to him in anguish,
“No! This fate is MINE!”

And after some long while
when silence filled the sky
I saw a sun now dawning
on a plain where the rubble lie

And rather than the wreckage
an even ground was revealed
and the voice of God, now revenant, spoke:
“We will build together, now.
All is forgiven and healed.”


© Charlie Young, 2020


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