Garden of Gethsemane

The Garden of Gethsemane, on a sleepless night,

Feeling as all light has fled, even starlight has turned

It’s back, the moon fucked off too, just the glow of

A phone as I try to distract myself from how I feel.


In the garden, no disciples or companions stay awake,

No one to help soothe The Devil whispering, picking,

Trying to push me to something drastic, foolish, irreversible.

Take revenge on a world of fools, or just put yourself in the ground.


A video, a wholesome young woman modestly dressed, sings

Of Jesus and his love, but I don’t feel him near, he won’t stay

Up even one single hour himself, but I listen to her sing, her joy

And her adoration, wondering if it’s joy or a betrayer’s kiss.


In the morning, if I make it, if The Devil doesn’t win this night,

And I’ll try to hold onto the light of this young woman singing,

Her heart pure and so sure of the light that fell dim on my eyes,

As all around me the world burns and His Children stoke the flames.

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