These Shoes

I wear this spectacles of tinted glasses
I see these golden flashes, rays, colours that sits well with me
I mean these oval screens before my eyes make me see better

I don’t eat on Sundays before solemn services
To eat before paying Him a respect is to belittle him
This spectrum of mine must be what God wants for all men
No frowns or you could lose the crown.

I’m free to give the bible my own voice
It’s no noise, I’m helping God create a community
I mean a village of serious spiritual servants, you know?

My code of conduct is God’s standard
The bible isn’t enough
I make it whole

Symolean
© 2021

Broken Mirror

I’m the supposed image of this cool King
Whose words are life eternal

Whose actions are as perfect as the cry of a newborn
Whose plans the whole universe reflect like the moon
Bringing us the afterthoughts of the sun at night.

I’m the supposed life He gave
The assurance that makes men brave
This eyes that look beyond the broken walls of your heart
The perfect stitchery that makes you new

But I fall short like shards of a mirror
I could barely survive the heat of this oven called living
Yes! I crafted my definition of living
Wrapped my gaze on the things I could see outside him
And I became a dead story waiting for his resurrection.

Symolean
(c) 2021

STRANGE AS A SUN

Nothing so strange as a Sun filled night.
Nothing more real as a Son filled darkness.
Such peace, when our fingers intertwine.

Nothing so strange as darkness posing as light
Nothing more surreal as a blue sky when heartbroken
Such madness, when our wits are feeble

Nothing so sweet as freedom
Nothing more special as owning nothing
Such wisdom, emblazoned in knowing you own nothing

St Davnique
Symolean
© 2020

We The Thomas

​We look beyond the curtain of logic

Certain that faith is the answer we seek…

We, who once reeked of depravity;

The ultimate gravity that governed us.


We listen to their testimony of victory

From the damnation we all once wore;

Our long lost core — sons of disobedience

Our grand patrons…

He heard of the call to come and

Drink freely from life giving water

The identity that our belly now carried…

We became little Thomas;

Come as you are we see as a deception…

We came and still doubted,

Denied the life we received more than Peter

We litter this new haven with perdition story…


But He waits still to clear our head

Of the effect the drug we bought from Lucy’s store years back

And open our eyes to the beauty we are

Which words fall short of

Everyday Jesus wants us to Consider our lifestyle 

​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