There he stood, against the blackened hills,
upon which grew a garden long decayed,
shaking in the constant, blowing chills,
facing death, to proud to be afraid.
Wanting what he fancied was his due,
his fist against the sealed storm clouds shook:
his lineage had left him much to rue,
though what he lacked, his own clenched hand had took.
The ground, though scorched, could testimony give
to Him who every substance has supplied,
but him who on it stood, aspiring to live,
rejected life; its very source, denied.
So there He stood against the blackened land,
a crimson nail driven through each hand.
@ 2006 Micah Carpenter
Most of my poems are a little more "flowery" than this stark, bleak, dim imagery. It seems to have a strange note of honesty about it, though. That's how I felt when I wrote it, at least.
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I began this with the intention of expressing some musings on philosophy and theology, and that is the form it will probably continue to take, although it may be somewhat sporadic, maleable, and apt to reflect whatever might randomly be on my mind when I happen to be in a blogging mood. As the name suggests, I hope it that it remains a central goal to work towards intellectual honesty.
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