2:00AM Poetry

We claim, collect, and clutch
As we gather much
Staking our ground
And settling down
In our palace
Like we’re the masters of our manors-
Managing our estates
When we should feel more like tenants
Or do I dare say it- servants?
Who carefully consider every gift,
Every piece,
Every thing,
We’ve been given.
It’s all property
That we’re borrowing
From The King.
Even the very air in our lungs
Can’t be kept.
We inhale one breath
Only to let it exhale
Not knowing how many more
We will be given.
I think it was by design
That we were made incapable 
Of holding it forever.
The Creator knows
That we would try to hoard
Even the life giving oxygen,
If our lungs allowed.
Nothing here is eternal
And the more we try
To age in reverse
And break the curse,
Save the planet-
It just gets worse
As ugly reveals more ugly
We just want it to stop.
Corruption, decay, erosion-
Our earthly kingdoms crumble
Under the weight of sin and time.
Our skin grows thin
And our bones grow dry
As life itself passes by.
That’s all a tent is made for.
Repair, reinforce, patch-
All feeble attempts
To prolong the inevitable.
What if we lived
Like we knew we were dying?
What if every breath,
Every piece of bread,
Every sunrise and sunset-
Were gifts
Meant to be enjoyed
And not expected?
What If our most prized possessions
Were ALWAYS the things
That loved us back
And turned out to not be “things” at all?
What if the stuff we used here
Became tools
Just to manage well 
What the King has chosen you and me
To be in charge of
While He’s away?
This place might feel different
But it was NEVER
Suppose to feel like home.
You see,  
The King IS coming back.
And When He does-
He’ll know how to fix this mess
Once and for all.
Then, and only THEN,
It will finally feel like home.

-Kim Taylor, 3/25/2021, 2:04AM