Dear Me,

Your face is torn.

Who sipped out your strength.

Your fair hands sin stained and faithless feet soiled.

When will this end, dear me?

The hustles, faith in the perishing, trust in the soon decaying.

You got to stop this suicide.

Do you know?

Some one says you are worthy and precious?

Someone sees your armor of war and not the torn clothes.

There is a person who knows you from your mother’s womb

That person knows all that is in stock.

He is always around but you fail to see.

When will you end

The trust in those who prefer your grave compared to your elevation.

You fail to notice the love he has for you mostly when you dress up in your soiled heart and broken lips

Have your ears been long covered with lies.

Are your eyes blind with the day’s stemming sun?

Or hope is burried.

I want streams of water flowing from you again.

Let your soil blossom with all flower offspring.

And let him live in you again.

Through him in Control.

~pato