pride: a glass orchard
where mirrors ripen and moisture never dares
 all the fruits are whispering
  (me) (me) (m e) 

vainglory—
  a bright spill of feathers
 from the throat of a shadow raven
wearing a halo it stole in haze filled sleep 

novice-spirit:
 eyes full of confetti-clouded vision
touching any shimmering fog
 and calling it “true”
because it moved first 

confession, with a pocket sewn shut:
the inner animal left untamed
racketing for escape
… it keeps licking the open wounds
deceived that this is new blood

A small, obedient fire 
  my will (a tin compass)
insists north is wherever it points;

the gospel becomes a costume
 hung on a door that opens
  into itself 

scripture unopened:
  the fathers’ words moth-eaten in the dark;
 and so the ear eats rumors
like soft bread (not a spiritual body)
 that tastes of certainty 
prayer without humility—

a balloon tied to a stone 
 made of selfish wishes;
a prayer without repentance—
 a staircase drawn in chalk
on the belly of sudden rain 

Yet the demonic persists:
with sharpened horns— from the land of dreams 
 but more like all courteous lanterns
offering directions
deeper into the forest of “almost” divine

******
son(of god)
 fold your willowed name around my mouth
like a quiet blade

have mercy on me:
 not lightning;
more the soft unmaking of 
 distant thunderous roars
   the thorn’s idea
 and one’s faith too weak to say his name

let the world’s bright noise 
   fall out of me
like coins from a torn pocket

Scot Gresham-Lancaster 1/5/2026 Brunswick, ME