So many times
I've looked at myself
And then questioned the truths
Christ says that someday
I'll be like Him,
But it's so hard to believe
In such a fantasy.
For the past day and a half,
I've been lost in a pain,
The incurable dismay
Of a rejection for all the wrong reasons--
Lies and cover-ups
By the brothers and sisters I'd accepted
In an alleyway of trust.
The sun had risen on the horizon of my destiny.
I could see my path, and my joy was complete.
But the curtain fell:
It was only a stage play on the stage of my life.
The props of polished mahogany...
Soon it was plain to see
The once-beautiful trees
Were hacked to death by the swings of an axe.
Christ came to His own,
But they turned Him away,
Later, cheering at His execution.
I came to my own,
Who received me at first,
Before they turned on me
With empty words and empty stares
In an empty room, once full of life.
Now I believe in the fantasy of being like Christ,
In which all the wrongs against me
Are for the right reason:
To make me more like Him.
Copyright © JONATHAN TAD KETCHEN