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  • Writer's pictureCaroline

The Flesh Betrays the Spirit

My flesh betrays me, longing for what is not mine. A heart within my chest tethered to a dock that I am out to sea from and never to come to port. 


Hazel spills out of his pupils like spilt paint dripping onto a green backdrop.

The sunlight reveals the dark streams poured from their origin like spokes on a wheel, swooping to capture the green in a basket in his left eye.

In his right eye, a fleck of silver appears to be a cavern that leads into the depths of his soul, that if only I were the size of a molecule, I might fall into the depths of him and never return.


What love is this that death would seem a reprieve from its clutches?

Bring me back to the holy love I once knew, enamored by the innocence of all creation!

What wicked love would not prepare a place of security?

What temporal love of man would cauterize the streams of life blood?

Bring me, Lord, to a place where all the prayers of your saints anointed on my head, do not go to waste. 


Oh, but his soul is one to look upon; a tenderness that called to my own.

A shared longing for what lies beyond what is seen.

A gentle hand whose caress could melt decades of hardness away.

What torture that his heart would call to mine and entwine the strings that hold me together.


The pull of eros, the heart deceived, and I have forgotten my first love; the one who sought me since my first crying.

The frailty of human love requires a touch, an affirmation, evidence, inclusion, a reason to believe that we are uniquely cared for and special to another. 

Faith in love from humanity demands that it constantly be revealed, layers of fidelity peeled back to be known as I for you and you for me; endlessly in all ways, until our last breaths. 


But you, oh Lord, have been a keeper of my wailings

Your arms have not held me, nor your voice in my ear comforted me, and yet you have been my supreme lover of my soul.


His embrace felt like warm honey, his words spoke to the depths of me and pulled out the tenderness hidden beneath years of turmoil.


I wept for the void of death to come upon me and relieve me of this burden and torment of living 

In your mercy, Lord, take me to be home with you!

What is this life that the nectar of death beckons to me?


I hear a murmuring of voices culminating together but I do not know the words nor recognize the voices.

Murmurings of prayers from saints whose knees are ragged from bowing before our Maker.

Their petitions are for me in my unworthiness, ascending to the heavens and received by the Lord.

Oh that I should bring to shame these sacrifices of praise and prayer on my behalf; that I should listen to the calling of my heart and not the knowing of my mind, that it is you, oh Lord, and you alone who sustains me.


Wicked child that I am, placing the love of my passions before your steadfast faithfulness. 

That I would be so enchanted by the flesh of a man, whose soul is as wayward as my own and forsake the love of my youth.



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