“May God never stop
haunting you”
became the first prayer I received,
that imprinted something like
a curse;
ink blots staining over truths
in the narrative
of my mind.
The notion that God haunts anyone
is curious, indeed.
He’s no ghoul—nor tormentor.
His watchful gaze brings peace
and protection, but unto
His enemies wisdom beckons:
fear the Lord.
It wasn’t until a familiar void
grew to engulf me
that I felt haunted by the absence
of Him.
Not that He didn’t exist,
but I was running.
I knew that He would welcome me
back, arms open—prodigal-like.
But my shame was cloaked in rebellion,
and like a city besieged
I wouldn’t allow Him in.
EXILE
I’d been defeated,
and I didn’t want to get back up.
I was drowning
in the depths of my sin,
all the marks I’d missed.
Its history had gravity,
and given its depravity
I was unable—or unwilling—
to pry at its grip.
Self-hatred ravaged and nipped
away at my soul.
Adversarial thoughts corroded my mind.
Ferality became my art.
Resentment raped my heart.
Perfectly isolated, set apart,
I retreated within my walls.
Hate began to blossom.
Curious, indeed,
is the notion that God haunts anyone.
For I’ve only been haunted
by the absence
my distance created.
Tides of the Enigma 