You came to call
knocking on my back door,
not the front one, mind you,
with fresh new paint and swept floor,
but the common place door
with the shiny knob worn out
with all the comings and goings.
Kitchen next, I show you through
the table set and laid
with ironed clothe and fresh brew,
a place for civil exchange.
I pray you overlook the chinaware,
my prized porcelain perched on the shelf
covered with dust and begging for care;
treasure suffering from disrepair.
No, you see them, and there the end
of conversation and pleasantries.
But you never came for pleasant things,
only for my home to mend.
I didn't invite you to flip the table,
but you did it none the less.
I didn't give you the key to my lockbox,
but you opened it, to my distress.
You came and saw my unseen places,
my overlooked corners and forgotten spaces:
The closet cluttered with collections,
The fogged windows and smudged reflections,
The broken things buried under the bed,
The sloppy sheets stained and disheveled.
You came and saw my hidden holdings
tucked into drawers, my shamed belongings:
Thoughts gone too far on unwashed blanket,
Hatred still crusted on the blade of covet,
Spider webs covering the picture frame,
My black book with names to blame.
You came and saw my lost effects,
which time and I found to neglect:
The thimble meant to be tended,
buried under entities yet mended;
The book of wisdom with pages askew,
after the rage from which I flew.
You came and saw my broken facility,
the lack of ability, affecting stability:
The attic sags from droves and hoards
of stale, stiff stuff stacked above
the leaking facet and rotting floorboards,
falling below to the crumbling concrete catacombs.
And then you found it.
My last secret.
You pulled it from where it was buried,
the place to which I had carried,
with all my strength that wearied,
far from anyone who had queried,
to stay there, forever buried.
Before me, you stand it there,
propped against a wooden chair.
Shattered shards shining in the glare.
Into my own eyes I stare,
the fractured image distorting my hair.
Blood from your cut hands drips without a care.
Your eyes on me, I am aware.
I then declare,
"This isn't fair!
You have come and seen the disrepair,
tromping through my house everywhere.
You weren't supposed to find this last affair.
I am presiding over my own welfare."
I finally stop my stubborn spluttering to gasp for air.
The exposure of my broken self, my daily nightmare,
has now set into my life a flare,
a beacon to shine between truth and lie's tear.
The pieces of my heart are sharp, beware.
Of two-faced self-righteousness, I am the heir,
and of pride and folly, I've had my fair share.
But now I lift my eyes to stare,
and the same mouth which used to swear
now opens to offer an oppressed prayer:
"You came and saw my dilapidation,
and in the midst of trepidation,
you entered without exasperation,
but instead with kind fascination -
love without a shred of hesitation -
you came into my life of fragmentation.
To issues I offer procrastination,
but you came to offer evacuation,
rescuing me from self-decapitation
and this self-sufficiency salvation.
Into your grace, given for purification,
bought by your blood for my salvation,
proximity is the only way for sanctification.
"Lord, please help me."
