Belief is an error in judgment, as faith is the fear which sings – a means of admonishing reason to nurture what soul gets lost.

It is beyond this strange discovery I catch my God at rest, sleeping beneath these memories of a life whose dreams make words – pure phrases said out loud along pages of raw feelings, inspired not by sacrifice but pursuit of a Lord unknown.

Whispers amid worry. Conviction out of darkness. Peace too undeserving for a man whose art costs work.

And yet His glory dictates, like passion from empty space – setting my fate into motion with a muse whose needs grow worse.

Her orbit finds me reeling at the center of doubt incarnate, juggling terms unsettling while Christ pours wine from sound.

Each syllable, an uttered gift – miraculous as they are fleeting.

Sweet, but never perfect – for heaven holds secrets well.

My suspicions of something greater drive pain pronounced as gospel, embellished across my margins as marvels revealing sin.

Such questions aren’t bad, it’s their truth which has me running.

I’m biding time expressing missing angels found through prose.

Aged as finest spirits, flowing rich like rivers endless – shallower than I’d promised touting praises verse should fake.

No sentence written well ever told of hell within us, implied only between wisdoms spoken shyly veiling dread.

How death will always come, stealing further things of beauty – undermining seeking purpose by preserving flesh past tense.

And books, they hide those scars, without witness but our Father – a deity so expressive Bibles bleed their worth on stage:

A church where hearts can burst, hearing triumph came before them, learning endings penned by devils were just drafts our souls could read.

I confess my only choice had these poems drink of scripture, spilling answers better swallowed since divinity always lasts.

– J. Pigno