THE WHOREHOUSE
She dances in the shadows
As darkness is a word her syllabus are all way too familiar with
She’s unstable like the climate
And her forecast is nothing but thunder storms and little degrees of sunshine
She hides behind the tower of her smile like Babel
Her words are night time whispers hoping to be heard in daylight
She tries trimming the cocktail time that tells the tales of her misfortune
And so humans often misconstrue the pathways that led to her deadened destination
She’s a piece of short sleeved happiness
And she stares at the ceiling ceaselessly hoping to count her blessings but all she sees is curses painted in pictures flipping through the gallery of her mind
As she begins to ask those rhetorical questions
Is HE alive?
Does HE see me shed my innocence like second skin and all he does is sit back upstairs and prove sovereignty
Are HIS powers limited to quench the flames of my poverty?
Or am I just another girl with an issue of promiscuity
Is HE too blind to see my fingerprints clogged on the hem of his garment or has HE lost the sense of feeling
Am I an experiment of creation?
Or was I made of second hand materials am I of a sandy soil
Am I just too porous to hold up the blessing he sprinkles on my skin?
Do my cries disguised as moans sound like lullabies to HIM
She asks these questions and she seeks for answers but it seems
It seems like heaven’s gate were shut even before she began asking
As she walks with the tag branded on her skin by the judging eyes of the world
And no one dares to see beyond her make-up and padded backside
The inner being that screams for a helping hand
All she sees is an army of accusing fingers making a roll call of her atrocities like they themselves were without blemish
Like they had the right to cast those stones when the Judge was yet to pass the court order
But then they forget that secret and public wrongs are same size when weighed in the balance of Gods judgment
For earthly scales, judgments and measurements are blinded by bribery and familiarity
And if He Himself was merciful enough to pass bail to her kind in the days of old
Then what gives us heart to hit the maze at the end of the case when we have no wigs on
What happened to the best judgment called LOVE
What happened to prayer, intercession for those whose bones are all too weak to lift their crosses alone?
For love is best shown on bended knees
Love is shown through calls in heaven for the sake of a fallen fellow soldier
Picking the eyes of a soul in struggle isn’t it but guiding him through the dark rough edges of a sword to the light of grace
Love thy neighbor as thy self
For this is the fulfillment of the law
And if we loved without segmenting our degrees of iniquities,
Then maybe we would see that some iniquities were done out of circumstances and could be reversed with the right dosage of love, care, attention and prayers
For love isn’t contempt
Love is a penitent heart on bended knees for the sake of a fallen fellow soldier
