I'm hearing young people all around me in this little room Using the language of Christ.

It's hip now. It's hip here.

And it's killing me. They're not wrong. They're not dumb. They're not evil. They're not cheapening the words they speak.

But...

But where is the conviction?

“What is conviction?” you ask. Conviction is this: The words you speak weight an ounce. The impact upon the hearer is a tonne. That is conviction.

Conviction is this: You speak the simplest phrases, sing the simplest songs in the simplest ways and in the simplest of manners. No ostentation, no affectation, no puffed-up hyperventilation. ——Yet the words themselves scream into the ears and into the hearts they land upon.

Conviction is this: You open your mouth to release a fly trapped inside, and out comes a planet.

Conviction is this: You speak, knowing nothing, yet revealing everything. You no longer care to know, care to be seen, care to be heard, or care to be recognized; yet the oceans become your followers, and the winds your loyal friends.

Conviction is blind Tiresias painting a sunset, Muted Beethoven retelling a symphony, and that modern painter's deafening whisper.

Conviction is everything but—— the cheap exchange of words, and careful synchronization of man-handled doctrine.

Conviction is everything but—— four canned songs and some preaching; a tall building to attract the followers of gastration, and some pamphlets to trumpet the blind leaders.

Conviction is the food of the Four Living Creatures, and the nourishment of Martyrs and Holy Fools.

Conviction is found where it is not sought, and comes with a price higher than anyone would willingly pay.

Some scream the questions, others glibly mock those broken inquisitors; but conviction simply speaks the answer which none have sought after. It dissolves mountains of pain and doubt, and heals the leper with the humility of a whisper.

Conviction is the difference between a program and a revolution, and between embalming and resurrection.

Conviction is what we lack. Conviction is what calls out to us in the stupor of our hyper-connected-disconnect.

tags: #poetry

This text will soon be supplanted with meaningful, if not insightful blog-style entries.

Like most beginning bloggers, I post what I like, and hopefully, like-minded people will follow along.

Coming soon: older poetry and other writings I have saved.

A little later, we'll have new material as the silver halide of my brain develops into new phrases and endless rants.

Stay tuned and buckle up!

#introduction #blogmeta #poetry #expression

Update: Older material I had saved elsewhere will be added with their true dates. So if you see material past this post, it means that it is older than this blog.

Here I sit in the same place I sat for two years, the same place I said goodbye to in my heart and mind a thousand times o’er.

Unexpected reunion, bittersweet detour, path of the Wild Goose.

Hound of Heaven, I chase after the One who chased me, down strange halls and through foreign doors, I seek Your will in surprising nooks and corners of the earth.

So when shall we consummate this dance, like mythical moon and sun, chase and counterchase, but never the rest of love?

I told You when I set my foot towards the Mountain of Myrrh, the Hill of Frankincense, that I would not go unless You went with me.

Years I’ve spent working towards You, now I beg to let me work with You— Let me spend my seemingly unceasing revolutions in the depth of You, Your very ———-ness.

I am asking for the Burning Lamp, and the Smoldering Furnace—— the Light of Your Gaze, and the Fire of Your Love, trapped in my bones, burning in my words, seeping from my pores.

#poetry