The Talk of the Internal

The shirt worn, displayed ideals of the small girl's mouth.
Their insensitive shape revealed ewes of Gilead
Her fingers like legs cycling just above ground
Unto my annoyance, she illustrates her point,
But her words run like tap water,
And I am far from her.

Conversation lull, a new character arises
Self pulls externals
A laugh from the right - familiarity had called, had cared.
Her words searching true, searching silver, crying
for the insight currently unfound-
But I am her avoidance, and still,
I am far from her.

Like the cherishing of sin in one's heart
Like the ineffective prayer of the intentionally wicked
Like the one who allowed satan to hold his swiftfoot in one's heart
Was my slowsin, far from her, ready to grow
to resent
her

Oh Lord, will you forgive my heart?
Am I ready for pride to die?