If it doesn’t look good, it won’t be called deception.
That nice-looking bandage over that fine piece of hot leg may as well be covering up a festering repugnant sore.
So, what will I do?
I am leaping off my bed
Throwing aside the beddings
In the bright of the day
Only my pajamas on
Running through the doors
Into the street
Bounding through the arrows of a million eyes
Shrinking inwardly from uncertainty and shame
Throwing myself on the beach at the road’s end
Where sits the Healer
Because He said I should come
Because He doesn’t believe in covering up dross with gloss
Because gold-plated clay never lasts
Because He can deal thoroughly with the sore
Because good acts can’t redeem the dark soul
Because noble emotions can’t re-brand the weak will
Because sheer muscle power can’t deliver the failing heart
Because He can save the dark misty soul
From my complacency…
Against my comforts…
In the wake of truth and discovery…
Just as I am…
Away from where I had been…
Out in the vulnerable openness…
Against my pretences, image-protection and “good” name; and external constraints…
At the foot of the Healer…
All because He called me out.
Gold-paint all you want,
It doesn’t change the that clay at the centre.