Poetry

 
I'm not their demon
Creeping in their home-
Creeping through the things they've grown.

I've deceived 'nother, 
Only to become undone-
Only with a loaded gun.

Their cursed lips have spit
And split my ears' itch
With a spiteful burning fire.

The same they mislead
Their neighbor with. Laboring, 
Spreading Down a spiraled spire.

Despite I kiss their lips
Softly, with solace, 
Knowing my appearance sly.

And so laced my space, 
They sluggards, stealing from my
folded hands to rest, my rod-

My mind-which slumbered, 
Baiting senselessness
Atop the vineyard's stone wall.

Thorns and weeds taught me
Through my willing, applied heart: 
'Thieves will steal to scarcity.'

So I pray to One, 
Him Above my stance, 
Unfold my hands. Guard, bait me.

Build my rare household; 
Fill its rooms beautifully.
Establish Your true wisdom.

I'm not their demon
Daring their dwelling.
They damn, dwindle and destruct.

Their flame will be snuffed; 
Future hope won't be 'nough.
They - guilty; I - richly blessed.

I wise, have power.
I will taste honey; 
I write an honest answer.



(Proverbs 24 [NIV] interpretation)