Corduroy

The sweet nectar of grace disguises itself as redemptive rain.

The height of paradox and pain–a world drunk in drought, an anorexic stout, a thankful pout, a silent shout.

The wind turns purple, holding its breath, waiting in vain.

O Redeemer: will you ever come, again?

Rumours of apocalypse dispatch with no sign of a saviour,

but psychological certainty is no heavenly flavour.

It seems we’re alone, but, in fact, we are one;

a bright yellow sun escapes no one.

Myths and legends are born–Achilles and Helen of Troy.

But only the crimson blood of heaven’s Son can mend the hole of life’s torn corduroy.

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Chester Delagneau


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