• R. E. Maynard

Riddle Me Not, Damnation

Riddle Me Not, Damnation

Ponder the days of late with eyes once blinded by life’s Christian hypocrisies and riddle me not the satisfactions conjuring of a spirited affair with one’s humbled existence.

The heart of a nation beats momentarily as death forsakes not the reception of a decent man’s castle in the sky.

Die with dignity upon arrival to a far better abode, pearl and lace, as angels heaven-sent the confinements of a freed soul gone astray from an Earthly stay.

A power readily forces an awakening to visualize vitality anew, a halo illuminated by a knowledge of familiarity sits atop the head like a crown, and the reunion of one’s cause leaves no doubts in a mind made up with a bleeding confusion of sins spun with remorseful glee.

I need not obscure the poise that rages in a gut overflowing with a gleeful reprisal for besting the Devil’s dues, paid in full through the blood of Christ, as the recollection of a life lived demands the answers to living.

Trust in the very intuitions that found a life of trilogy, and never forsaken the deeds bound by a life challenging the logics of a matrix calculating time and space, as each ticking of the clock extends a life seconds further in a stratosphere riddled with decisions to bear. Damnation fails to seize the wholly spirit of a righteous soldier in God’s legion, while mankind weighs a lifetime of temptations wholeheartedly.

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