God Of Helplessness 8/9/15

Within the God of helplessness,

every victim's disease dresses in shame.

Every victim's blame sickens to mud.

Self-indulgence dines on numbness from craving.

I am a servant of separation's incomplete me. 

Experience seals my spirit,

confines inexpressible rage.

No one I turn to,

no one I turn away.

I am mesmerized by what is said with violent ways.

I am fumbling for a language of forgivingness.

Each act is a blind outcry.

I have been offered violence

as left-handed compliments to me,

struck hard as flattery,

violated as unconscious praise,

even killed as a personal honor coming my way.

I feel torture prodding me up compassion's mountain.

I am forced to face then expand

beyond debasement's reach,

to see light ignited into dark deeds

that are saving no one.

Humbly I claim last place in the enlightenment line.

I patiently wait for others to divinely self-ignite. 

Desperate misery sparks harmony songs among us. 

With nothing to shape,

no place to be,

no time to have been,

all the world's dirty wash is clamoring here.

It is piled everywhere as sight provides its own destiny.

Everyone's vile dress bleeds along my savage blade, 

cutting me into irrational sections,

leaving me much the bloodstain same way.

Touching me with the caress of their death,

embracing me with the crush of their body,

thrilling me with this flood of new agony,

I gladly give it up to get it out of me.

There I am with festering joy lucidly fondling pain, 

besieged by the power of everything hostile,

dissolved from meaning with nothing to bare. 

Surrender invites my unconscious

to step out of my dark shadow's closet

yet I am here for what wardrobe remains.

I wash in the river all that is left of me

then wash away with all that is gone.

I pray to the God of helplessness

for nothing from you to set me free.

I am filled with life emptied through living.

I am able to die over and again in that compliment. 

These violent riddles are as a seizure of my heart,

yet no death is senseless.

Every human act reaches for the light.

Love has no stored residence.

Mine is the ploy of undying participation.

Every actout comes through the heart undefined.

For my spirit as well as yours,

is never the captive of this matter . . .