Bleeding out...

To bleed is to both purge and perish, equal parts anguish & admonishment. I stood steadfast and unwavering in the chilled rain, weeping blood down my side in the darkened night air. The pathways around my immediate stance all leading down to the center of the concrete parking lot into the metallic grated abyss. Down, down, down we go into the bowels of hell I supposed. Figuring in that moment, the irony swirled around the conflicts waging around my head. Undulating between wearing crown and thorns, I am both hated and revered. This has not changed for a lifetime. Undaunted, I dare not attempt to locate the source of my dribble, my bloodshed. It all seems so routine by now, so expected, so deserved. My walk has never been about glory for its own sake, happiness for its own gain, or believing that the light of the day will lead me home. Blood lost on so many countless souls unable or unwilling to stand beside me when the darkness falls. Intentions, interest, intrigue and intimacy are insufficient. I am far too damaged, too flawed, too disjointed. The murmuring of my tainted path, my journey, piques curiosity, pity even consolation. But not love.

Love has evaded me, perhaps for my own skill in its mishandling. Perhaps for my deeds done in the name of love, the auspices of its shroud, the sanctity of its masquerade. I have never witnessed the mercy of its presence when I stand bleeding. At times from my own hand, from my own words. Other times, just an inconvenient truth that I was not going to be valiant enough to rescue their souls...from both themselves, their own choices and to provide them with better moments. I am easy to give up on and place back upon the shelf in the antique village, no one else the wiser. Means to an end at best for most....At my worst, a soul to bide the minutes with a faded glory scarred and weary athletic frame and at my best, a thought provoking, wise enigma of sorts a bit too whimsical, too angular for anything more a passing friend. Bleeding, I am left alone to relish in the scent of my own demise.

The walkways enlighten with the crimson current and I smile, both from intangible blood loss, and my own sickened belief that maybe this is my penance once again. I care less to terminate its flow as the passing minutes tick onward. I am prepared for my judgment, my day of resolve and reckoning. I have loved, and attempted to have been loved by others in this lifetime, at least as much I can comprehend the concept. I have both drawn blades of steel and cloths of comfort to those who were bleeding before me. It is bewildering dichotomy to live with such memories of my steps, the grounds in which I have traversed.

I feel weary and weak, succumbing to the fervent reality that my choice is clear. Heal yourself, so you can love yourself and others or continue to bleed out and perish in my own recklessness. In my weakened state, I muster my voice and plead out to God, perhaps undeservedly, as other believers have for centuries..... Heal me Father.....if it is Your will.

Heal my walk....

For now, I continue to bleed...

Out.
of.
Time?

Not.
Out
of.
Faith.

I am weary...