I walk from there to there
to paint myself into black pixels,
my shadow following obediently
part of the hobbled sketch.
I draw myself
as a wobbly line,
ill aligned and always
misplaced near the horizon
Above are scrawled illegible words
written in a shaky handwriting,
below exists the gurgle of my bowels
that my imperfect ears can only hear.
I ponder my broken perfection
and hear Jesus whisper his love,
knowing not the direction
from which he speaks to me.