They say you lost your
Sense of self, your memory
A clutch of forgotten strands.
Jumbled. Fragmentary pieces
Of a puzzle askew.

But memory loss is a sweet
Mercy when weighed against
What you truly suffered.
The truth, largely unsaid, is that you
Have long been unconscious,
A breathing corpse beaten
Quite savagely into a
Coma state not unlike death,
Where your dreams are
Nothing more than a mass of
Dark ethereal fabric that drifts
Through a cavernous mind whose
Lights have dimmed to nothingness.

Quiet and still you lay,
A body mangled by the brutality
Of a confederation of nations.
In silence they gaze intently
At your unmoving form,
Each of them as fearful as
The next of even the slightest
Movement on your part.

For the stirring of function,
Or the return of a modicum of
Consciousness in you might mean the
End of their bitter rule.
So they beg their deities to
Pull you wholly into the
Realm of the Dead,
But with each breath
You draw their plans are
Plunged deeper into the
Pit of futility.

It is Yah who has left
You in this state, a payment
For your rebellion against him,
Wherein you sought your own
Deities and refused his perfect Law.
Yet within the fallow field of
Your heart Yah has planted a
Seed that has yielded an abundant
Crop of sorrow for your sin.

This sorrow has moved him to
Compassion, and he regards your
Sleeping, broken form with
A deep pity. Now your eyes
Are slowly gathering light
As they open at his word,
For Yah has called true Israel to . . .

Other Set Apart Poems

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It made me sad, angry . . . but it moved my Heart. I Love it.

Thank You.

—Annette D.