Soul Machine

gears grind like gnashing teeth
chopping up the bowels of me
blood gushes, thunder rumbles
the soul machine never ceases

once there was a person here
her heart still beat and wind still
roared through dark, damp snakes
the tunnels in her lungs

blood pulsed to a thudding beat
skin warmed and shoulders shrugged
off worries like little snowflakes
sweat glowed, body shivered

the soul machine grunts and groans
scrapes heavy metallic feet on the
icy steel floor, leaking red ink and
words fall to paper like forest leaves

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not my image
not my image

I am contemplating what it is to be the change. To be the miracle.

I am tired of feeling like – and being – a hypocrite. A traitor to myself and to what I believe. A traitor to my King. A traitor to the world, the broken world in need of change. In need of a miracle. The hours I waste. The stuff life is made of, like water through my fingers.

It is like the truth is there, in the center; quiet and constant and everlasting. The truth will not defend itself because it speaks for itself. The truth will not shout to drown out the cacophony of noisy lies because regardless of how loud the noise becomes, the truth will not flinch or shrink or decay or fall into ruin. We are the ones who choose to fill our minds with noise. To fill our souls with a false peace. To fill our hearts with empty love promises that go unfulfilled and cold embraces of statues that cannot come to life. With words that once meant something and now crumble like ancient scrolls no one ever reads anymore.

We drown out the screams. We have done so in the past and we do so now. The screams of people outside, and the screams of our own decaying selves. What have we become? What have we come to? Why do we not care about the fast fading light? Why do we not see the midnight hour? Why do we not protest the slow, torturous death we are witnessing? Are we asleep? Have we given up?

The fast fading light. A glowing ember in the dark. Who has breath to blow it back into existence, that fire we can create? Immensely gifted, wasting hours, hours, with a dying ember in the dark and breath to ignite the fiercesome flames. Wake up. Wake up. Wake up.

Beyond Description


This thing that I want to say is difficult to express, because it’s said so much that it’s been watered down to the standard thing you tell someone when they’ve had a bad day. It’s like an ice cream cone, like the ones you give to little kids when they stub their toes or something, and those either melt or you eat them up in two minutes, and they don’t last.

“God loves you” is this thing I want to say. But there actually are no words, no coherent sentences, that can fully express all the meaning these words carry.

Yes, sin has consequences. And yes, God expects us to do our best in living for Him, to ask Him for help when we need it (which is always), and to repent of our sin. No, He does not love us because we’re perfect or loveable or whatever. No, He doesn’t give you a pass on something you did just because you were tired and had a bad day, unless you ask for forgiveness. But I think – I know – that despite hearing those words, “God loves you,” hundreds and probably thousands of times in our lives, we don’t hear them. They don’t penetrate our hearts the way they should.

Those words mean that literally no matter what you do, God loves you. He loves you because He is perfect, and that means His love can never run out and nothing you do can increase or decrease His love for you. That is an awesome, as in awe inspiring, thought. And it’s not only a thought or an idea: it’s the whole and absolute truth. His love is unending. His mercy is unending. His forgiveness is unending. Not unending the way we think of it. Unending as in really, truly, literally, seriously, unending.

And God made you the way He wanted you to be. Sin distorted you, but He shed His blood to save you, so that He can have a relationship with you, so that the barrier between you could be torn down. You are beautifully and wonderfully made; His works are wonderful, and you’re one of them.

Psalm 139, Song of Songs



I preach peace but my deeds breed slavery.
I give you poisoned honey,
give you nectar with a killer disease.
I’m the magnet,
you’re the metal shavings;
I say you’re free
but you’re really in slavery.

Hold my hand,
I’ll guide you into the flames.
Don’t worry, trust me,
I’ll go slow so you won’t feel it.
Take you down in slow motion,
like a rugby playback,
pinning you down
while you scream for the medic.

Don’t analyze my words,
just go with it.
Your mind is too small to fill it
with anything but one doctrine,
one ideology, one set of chains.

I find it funny how you struggle and run,
fighting a battle that was already won.
Yeah I’m defeated but
I’ve still got your soul.
Don’t take much effort,
since you run to me…
give up your freedom so easily.

Who needs joy when you’ve got rum?
Drown your pain in my blood,
fill that hole in your heart
with my hatred, despair.

I’ll make you sing, all right,
I’ll make you sing all your life.

Scream out your pain,
who’s gonna hear you?
Shout for help,
who’s gonna cry?

You’re too far down,
too deep in my darkness.
Why complain when you chose it?
No hope remains;
you’re mine now,
you’re mine.

Next: Truth