A Chance at Redemption

A Chance at Redemption, by Brandon Reese

Alone in the woods,
He sat and he pondered,
Thinking of all
Opportunities squandered;
Thinking on folly
And thinking on fate,
Judging and weighing
His every mistake.
When out of nothingness,
And absent of sound,
Appeared a young boy,
His smile, a frown,
Disheveled and dirty,
Yet of noble gait,
Whose soft voice inquired,
"Sir, why do they hate?"
"Pardon, young boy,
But of whom do you speak?
And where is your mother,
Or servant she keeps?"
His hand to his breast,
"My mother is here,
And all things serve Mother,
Even the deer."
"Peculiar young lad,
I fear you are lost,
Merely asking for death
From the cool morning frost."
"Of death and dying,
I know all.
And of the frost,
I'd ask for thaw.
Preserved too well,
It leaves the dead;
The waking hours
Full of dread.
To call me lost
You have forgot,
I; the kettle,
You; the pot.
Hollow and shallow
And easily used,
Drunken and dwelling
In old loves' refuse.
You think you're the victim?
You think you've been wronged?
Then reflect on how selfish
You've been all along.
Where are your children?
Where is your wife?
And what of your job,
To give them all life?
How are your parents,
How are your kin?
Or did you forget them,
In all of your sin?
You shame yourself,
Pretender of great,
I'll ask you again,
Sir, why do they hate?"
"Demonic Child,
Leave me be,
God cast your lot
Into the sea.
You judge me,
But who are you?
My letters of faith
I'll get from the pews.
My children, my parents?
My kin and my wife?
Be gone from this wood,
And be gone from my life!"

A bitter man is he that sees
Not his own redemption,
This man here was blind indeed.
Despite this intervention,
He died in the woods
Mad with despair,
Foaming and frothing,
With no one to care;
Desperate for answers,
Yet lacking in faith,
Said when he met God,
"Sir, why do they hate?"

image courtesy of Dave Wilkinsion