Bent
I cannot bloomthe way I used to.
My colors are drab,
Far less than my potential.
I am bent.
Longing to praise you,
The way you designed me to.
With despotic understanding,
You love me as if I were whole.
I raise my petals,
Awkwardly worshiping by choice,
A silhouette of what I will become.
Thought up by Tmproff at 11:10 AM
2 People Talking:
That is true worship. It made me cry...Then it made be really think
about my own unept attempt at worship. Thank you for such a provocative blog site. I visit
it often.
lovely prose, i like the part about the petals... we are all so unfinished, aren't we?
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