The Flesh

There's something so bold

and abrupt about the flesh,

naked and cold outside

of the garden

and craving so

many things I

can feed it.

But there it goes

hungry again,

dormant like an

angry dream

that gathers no life,

haunting

and howling

no matter

the amount

of Netflix

and coffee

and booze

and porn

and paychecks

and little bits

of our insecure

selves we try

to feed it

Only to get

bitten.

It makes sense

then, I suppose,

God guarding

His garden,

Not only as

consequence

but as collateral–

insurance

that everything

He made

would be

protected,

including us

from ourselves.