This Ill Begotten Prayer

I wake each morning with a weight on my
Chest, a feeling of confusion--for which I'm
Blest. I give a heave and a ho; I sigh
While stretching hands over arms. I am fine
Says the head to the heart as I swing both
Legs from the bed down onto the floor. Growth
From yesterday; for my body did pine
And groan in endless grief for being made
To change my life for others, and unstaid
In it's ways by my zeal and great fervor
It now plods along with a great shiver
After my feelings and emotions. High
In the sky do I feel in this moment,
I smile as I pray devotions. Yet dry
Will the heart become in time; when men vent
Their pains and sorrows, they beg to God
To take away their misery. Poor sod
Am I, I am like them; I cannot walk
Upon the seine. Yet walk I will along,
Pulling my affections to an old song.
In conversation, this dialogue, talk
With God and neighbor, trying not to balk
At the pains and the suffering I feel...
Hoping for time alone, that prayer and zeal
May heal me in the presence of my King...
To kneel before him, to kiss His hand, wring
Out my heart before him, in order to
Please him! My savior, my Lord, is a true
Healer that unites my body, my soul;
He consoles, helps me relinquish control
Of all my senses, thoughts, my faculties,
He calms the raging wind and roaring seas
That bedevil me throughout the hot day,
That I may work in his vineyard, and may
Look upon him in the eyes of all men;
To see his beauty in all of women;
To see his peace in the smile of a child.
I sleep again! So as I lift my legs
After a long day of work, my heart begs,
My mind and soul garner for favor; please
Lord, I ask of you, while on my knees
To grant that in sleep I should die for you!
To love my Lord, my God, and to be true
Even within the folds of my dreams...
And to take when I wake whatever heart gleans
From your presence within me as I slept...
This I pray Lord, I have spoken and wept
That you should hear me, this unworthy soul,
Whose thanks is enough to keep me full.

Perhaps such a poem, such a song is dry...
It lacks perspective; to emotional
Is it's content, affective in nature.
It is no more than the breath; tis a sigh!
No more than a dry lump of blackened coal...
Yet all words are dull in comparison
To the actual thing they refer to.
And each hope that is spoken in this poem
Is one that in reality is won
By a steady heart of great devotion.
So carry on, you who read this ditty,
This poor laid verse made in the smitty
Of a mediocre mind from the ville
Of Steuben: do not take in a word, ill
Begotten is this verse when you compare
It to the words made wholesome by all fare
Saints and mystics from long ago, now gone.
Fare you well now, I must go. From anon
I wish you well, that all your days are of
Peace. May the blessing of the heavenly dove
Rest upon you in this year of God's faith;
Restoring your hope in all of God's ways,
Filling in what is lacking. No mere wraith
Are you, but a man of God. It all pays
To fight the good fight, to wake every morn.
If only to sleep again, rest from scorn.

                  This Ill Begotten Prayer, (c) Luke Bennette, October 2012