Fruitful Failings

Are we not more
plastic than we
wish to be, yet
not malleable enough?

Some days true
my skull is like
a basin with
faulty plumbing:
my thoughts stink
and provide no
nutritional value.

With age, sinfulness
becomes evermore
overbearing, yet
not shocking enough.
The dull-dead weight
and its residue,
silence all joy:

self-loathing and
counter-infliction
can last for days,
unless I turn sharply
to consolation.

Else I turn to sin
for comfort but
then I need solace
from the ‘comfort’!

I don’t know why
I comfort myself
after the betrayal;
it’s God who’s been
chewed and discarded

How can we ‘comfort’
The Comforter when
She is grieved? I turn to
Christ as a mother, and
Forgive my postnatal self