​Cymbals

Men pleasing has become our Baal

Our life the bar of Balaam

Upholding norms

Losing the form of God in us.

Drums

Beating our chest in pride

Our tittle knowledge has got us riding

On the things we never were

And the things that can never form in us.

The melodies of our guitarist

Our lying tongue

And the wrongs we call right

Has left us in deserts

Of will

Our heart milling endlessly

The next rhyme to call rhema

We play with the dead

Yet claim to be living 

Yet life abides in us still

Our doings suffocating it

And  the trumpet of of voice void

Of any goodness

Other than sycophancy

The cymbals we lived

And the cleansing power we received

In his blood

The thick red fluid that makes us white as snow

Now we know

It’s nothing other than a thought