what can you scrub from this skin?
can you take the booze, or the abuse,
the regret or the sorrow?
how about the thorns,
of this deep jungle?
how deep does your salvation clean,
oh preacher, oh prophet,
when can I hold your promise in my hand?
how about the weight,
yes, how about the sum of my burden,
are the gospels' shoulders broad enough,
for the debt accrued
riches owed the accountants of suffering.
speak to me in the light,
but follow me into the dark,
I think you won't.
and there,
in the place you know better than to wander,
I'll know my strength,
the truth of my solitude and the stench of my lonely wrong,
there, even the wildest terrors relent,
for I am small man,
in huge existence,
and on just two blistered feet, I continue to stand.
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