What victory to gain, a life, awry, lacks

but to do all of Your will

Rewarded, or not

is what all souls seek, in things golden, they caught,

when not by dark passions, drearily distraught

 

It is of no importance, how cold one feels,

None shall it matter, if my heart ever heals,

All shall be Just

for all the Evil I have sealed

in the Envelopes of Life

wherein

Many, at my own hand reeled

from a stumble of Pain, riveting, and real.

 

Vanity, it is, when men cry out

for balms of healing, and justice about

the times of their lives, when the heart went south.

So quickly they forget, what wounds they threw about!

 

Indeed, the eyes are blind, when gain there is to find,

when a man wants more, and forgets whom he made

Sore!

And that, not only, completes the lore,

but this also: every evil thought

he never abhorred.

 

For it’s not only what others see

that corrupts the soul, and makes it unfree,

but thoughts clandestine, and purity arrested

likewise strangle what the Spirit tested:

the resolve of man, to tender his heart

to see others’ eyes, as of his own, a dear part,

and for that cause, such pains he suffers,

which is a mercy of God, to bolster what buffers

the wayward soul that’s forgotten to mutter

sweet prayers of mercy, for the whole world’s

Gutter.

 

This gutter is the place where tears of a child

Sizzle in the heat of Satan’s bombs,

where legions, demonic, so laughing defiled

the Image of God, in a sacrificed pile

of souls divine, and lives so robbed

of humans entire, and heads sickly lobbed

 

These, not only, but also the beggars

whose minds, destroyed, caused streets to gain fetters,

or prisons, where scorned, these men betray

all of dear faces, mocked in dismay

 

But these, still also, the silent cries

of ordinary people, he gave also demise,

when ignored were their voices, and belittled the size

of their pains, alike joys, he trampled for a prize

 

And again, one should say, it stops not at these alone,

but also every time neglectful souls condoned

all, under the sun, that trampled and cloned

each daily evil, all in common have honed.

 

Yet, a method, this is not, merely to instill guilt

and despair,

but to lay in sweet context, all worthy

for which to care,

which is not the ill tidings of one’s own

pains’ swampy lair,

but rather the greatness, for which his

soul ought to bear:

 

the groans of all men, and the sins, his own

that caused others to fall, by seeds badly sown,

so that now he can see why suffering moans

are the best of one’s glee, and spiritually prone

to arouse his spirit, and rectify blows

shall no more he throw, while tears, crocodile, flow

 

Nay, now he sees what order is great,

only that which chastens, and never too late

to turn a man’s heart, to repent and state

that all for which he clamored was silly

and late

to acknowledge what hour had arrived

in time

to eschew everything false, that renders man

a Mime:

 

that mover and jester who hides all

speech

that a soul ought to render

for what it endeavored to leech,

which is the Essence of goodness,

and the dance that would teach:

 

the soul to

Reprise,

 

and the Divine,

 

Beseach.

_________________

 

R.V. Smith: “Repentance”, 05-26-25

 

© 2025 by Ryan Vincent Smith