Whirling Dervish

What happens is what you’d expect

to happen, watching the quietly loud

form arms and legs until it’s running

around you, whirling dervish-like–

its tune set to the thoughts

you’ve always had a hard time taking

captive.

And all you want is to know its heart

because you wrongly assume

all new hearts are good, more pure,

but honestly, they’re only blank-slated

and underlying with a sin that’s been

passed down since God made time.

And eventually, it does happen–

the new heart speaks, and it’s a beautiful

sound until it isn’t, pressing into circular

cycles that make you lose your mind.

Are I enough?

Are I doing this right?

Am I ruining the heart?

Don’t answer that.

For a long time, you forget the God who made time,

And all your answers are weak and brittle,

And swept into piles you try to sort

And categorize.

But then it speaks again, this time louder,

stronger, and it no longer has anything

To do with what you’ve done or didn’t do.

And it becomes its own entity,

Frankenstein’s monster.

What have you done?

But then the God who made time sees your own heart

No more purer or less ruined, and He reminds you

Of how you’re in the now, cognizant of your every sin,

The one passed down and the coagulation of all

You’ve created, and how He takes it all from you,

Then, now, and for always and how He’ll

Do the same for the heart He’s let you hold.