Category: Indifference


Do I take any pleasure in the death of the wicked? declares the Sovereign Lord. Rather, am I not pleased when they turn from their ways and live?

Ezekiel 18:23 (NIV)

I’ve never really given hell much thought. Before I was saved I remember reading books about hell that portrayed it as a place where all of the “cool” people went. When I read the Bible I see it as a dark hot place with a lot of weeping and gnashing of teeth with everyone there suffering eternal punishment. There are various interpretations of what hell looks likes but the one thing that I do believe is very clear about it is that God isn’t there.

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Bubble             boundaries                         abound            bouncing                                                     
                                    
                                     all-
 
                                     over 
                                     town
i                                                                              t
g                                                                              a
n                                                                              t
o                                                                              t
r                                                                              e
i                                                                              r                                                                  
n                                                                              e
g                                                                              d
                                     sheep,  
                                     those
                                   that weep-
                                     until
                                      the
                                    n e x t
                                  r e p a s s
                                   
when               giving              is                 in              season
                                    

these days,
you’re in such
a haze. Mind’s
escaping, these
wounds, left
gaping. You
titter and
stare, while
stripes I bear.

Words whipped
wildly, shouted-
without care.
Leave scars
behind, yet
you, are
blind. Can’t
you see,
you’re
killing
me?

Hip Shots

Slapping canvas,
words
meet paper,
carelessly
thrown-
skipping a
stone,
writing
meaningless
groans.

Not
a jot, or
a thought,
to what
they might
mean,
perhaps even
glean, something
hidden
beneath-
this
razorback
sheath.