Skeptics

Kernels of gold sowed in sweat. Embodied husks designed to protect. Multicolored grain, a heavenly harvest. The plague in the Garden— one locust started— the Reaper ransoms to forget.   A rotted ear only hears the screams of its own dissection, an eternity of introspection. Rows of corn restless with guilt. The cup of wrath…

A poem about a collage of experiences from Christian teenagers battling the temptations of living in a fallen world. Feeling torn in two, playing Pangea with Lily Pads: the kingdom of God vs the mud of the flood under my feet. One thing I look forward to— dangling my toes over a lazy lake sitting…

He speaks from the heart: “I have to say—I’m impressed with your sense of community and respect for leadership. But that’s nothing without Activism!” he finishes by dropping the clipboard and slamming his fist onto his open hand. “What is justice without action? Action is the meat of true justice. Words are the side salad.” He pauses. “There are no vegetarian activists. Only carnivore’s with claws. But I can see that not all of you have what it takes to be exceptional individuals. Only those of you who are willing to be led and rise to action above your current state of unbelief.”