freedom, gospel, poetry

Delinquent Magic

You told me the trick. It was too good to be true. I told you, forget it. I couldn’t suspend disbelief. Because it didn’t make sense to my senses, my sight and my touch and my guilt and my shame. He said, Hocus Pocus. And then, it was so.

I thought it illusion. Too good to be true. Just say it? Just do it. The cliches continue. Just say it? It is? That’s not reality. Not how it happens. Not how it works. Cliches are the slave words. That are not free to speak. The Master of Ceremony. Controlling the sentences. Air traffic Supremacy. Dominating the truths.

But sinners know magic. Tasting rogue vocables. The words that confuse. The words that steal meaning. The words that are magic, and too good to be true. 

Infantile. Unfaithful. Believing such madness. That it’s not my fault. That it’s not my burden. That it’s not my cross. To die on. Even try on? 

Discipline is freedom, do better, do more. Attempt at the obvious. Just do it. They say. Cliche. 

But death is my freedom, and there’s nothing to do. Trapped in our trespass. Just say it. 

They don’t. 

Or won’t.

The secret of sinners. Approaching like children. Regression to listen. Uncontrolled understandings. The rebellious will get it. The defiant will know.                                       

How disgusting, they say. Master of Cliche, they cringe. They cry, One should not be so proud to be such a fool.

Still, sinners know magic. The words that endure. Beyond do this, and try that. The words that call bullshit. Beyond fine, blessed, and happy. Delinquent wisdom. Only dead people hear.

Disobedient magic. It’s not an illusion. A trick that is real. Only by faith. Because it’s more than is seen. The worst are the honored. The last change into first. The poor are transformed into kings of the age. Recreating the fallen. Restoring the undone. Remaking the one who cannot make themselves. It is finished, completely. By a word it is done.




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