Choice

The prodigal son stands on the edge of humanity, his shoulders heavy with the burden of his own creations.
Crushed is he, the very thought of those around him struck and molded in his image is far too much to comprehend, the conscious decision of the father racking the confines of his skull.

The fallen son stands on the edge of his own mind, contemplating the road so far.
Devastated is he, the very thought of the failures that seem to engulf him permeate every layer of his defenses, still haunted by the conscious decision that could have been his downfall.

The prodigal and the fallen, forever destined to outdo each other in every aspect of life.
If one was set to rule, which one would you choose?
The fallen and the prodigal, forever destined to seek whatever it is they can, keeping in their respective flanks, whether it be order or reason.
Between the two, which would you choose?

Think for yourself.

© Copyright September 2014/July 2016

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A False Sense Of Grace

So fondly I recall your grand insides, the lavish detail and intricate stained glass.
Among your sacredness, I cannot forget all the times spent gazing above, the splendor of your heights enthralling.
That time has passed, many a time ago, and yet I find myself dwelling on your beauty.
In my youth, my line of sight was not to your glorious ceiling, but rather your marvelous foundation, the meticulous tile in which the soles of my shoes would so eagerly grace.
However, with time, my bright greens shifted upward, observing the likes of your heaven, engraved with the most spectacular and captivating possibilities. 

Oh how blind I was, believing such possibilities were anything remotely close to a reality, foolish in the most honest sense of the word.
The words that were spoken in the confines of your sanctuary, once inspiring and enlightening, giving purpose.
Now they can be found falling upon an open mind and an illuminated heart, instruments better suited elsewhere, never bound to serve in the first place.
A strange kind of shame plagues me whenever I happen to step through your doors, always by some sort of grief-stricken consequence, never of my own accord.
Feeling that familiar heat rise ever-so-slowly across my skin, I know that I am indeed a fake, a true wolf among sheep. 

All this time spent away from you, and yet I cannot help but be drawn to your magnificence, one that I now know is only skin deep.
I struggle to come to terms with what you’ve become to me, nothing more than careful lies and a false sense of grace.
All those time spent away from you, and yet I still dwell on your immaculate grandeur, a beauty that cannot be more man-made.
I struggle to come to terms with what I know I be true, convictions that are all too real, the evidence as plain as day for those who choose to see it.

I beg for someone to prove me wrong.

© Copyright March 2014/July 2016