From melody to melody my mind switches
Either the vaulted organs of the churches of old
Or the bittersweet piano that could be paired with euthanasia
I look to the past for answers about my present and future
A cocktail of perseverance, self-belittlement, sorrows, the like
As I push myself up my arms are met by the shot of a pistol
I crumple and my endurance wears a little more
Letting go and letting God has so far been categorically unfruitful
If I let go I drift away
If I try I am pushed down again
What is the solution then?
I am a pachinko ball in an endless decline,
bouncing between two options,
always descending regardless of choice.
The difference between myself and the dead man wares thin.
Where before I found myself missing being used mightily by God
Now I find myself longing for the age of torment
If only because it forced me to grow close and rely on Him.
What revival comes for the revived?
What rock bottom comes for those who are lifted up?
My endurance is in living.
My discipline fulfills bare minimum.
My consciousness and desire are void.
The well is run dry.
I have no strength to accept living water.
No will to enter into prayer.
No discipline to make time for peace and communion.
What hope is there?
This is the part where I come to my revelation.
Where I know the strength is not in me.
Yet I see no light and no strength fills my spirit.
What hope is there?
The melody repeats.
Chaconne in G Minor.
Violins descending and rising in chaotic fashion
As the organ plays in the background.
Stochastic, majestic, hallowing.
And it switches again.
Nocturne in E flat major (Op. 9, No. 2)
The peaceful and joyful front face
The hidden tone of sorrow
Something about Chopin puts me in another world
Beautiful.
And back and forth and back and forth.
A voice speaks softly and smoothly
Like a cyanide pill traversing down the throat
I pray for no repeat incidents.