The Sulking Slave


My skin and flesh,

My brain, heart and home.

0′ meager, insufficient friend,

Where are you going

With your head hung so low?

What displaces your joy with trouble?

Is it I?

You pout with the tears

Of a teenage girl.

Yet I only ask you in taunting;

It is not as if I care, or dare,

To lift up your expectations.

You will serve me well,

Long past your desire.

You will rise to retrieve:

What gives my feet wings.

You do not provide me food or water,

Though I feed you and quench your thirst.

Your place you cannot accept.

There is no abandon in your chores.

There is no spring as you drag your feet.

For I will not give you

What you think is yours.

So then, where are you going,

My desperate, lonely friend?

To work with you,

And then the grave,

That is your mortal end.

You are not worthy to clothe me;

You are not prime for His Glory.

I’ve shown you your place,

I’ll demand your attendance.

Until your replacement is found.

By His Grace

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