The Servant's Toil

Burned.
Desolate.
Renounced.
Conversations spinning before me, 
I'm only allowed
Shrapnel of meaning
To pierce my brain.


Burned.
Desolate.
Rebuked.
Ramma-lamma ding-dong, baby,
My ears deceived,
Wrapped in puzzles
Of a single color.


Isaiah wrote of the Servant's toil,
Not living to see what it would begin.


Why kill the Messenger?
How great Thou art.


Isaiah wrote of the Servant's toil.
Learned.
Immaculate.
Renewed.

Copyright 2012 by Andrew T. Durham