The Prodigal Son

The Prodigal Son

By John G. Evans

4/28/2020 3:22:03 AM

I was born in 1954.

I weighed 4 pounds, 2 ounces.

I was not expected to live.

Like the hospital visit by the Lady of a golden azure whom I kissed her hand,

Was this a pious illusion? My arms were tied to the gurney. How could I?

And now, forty-five years later I want to know.

But, often arrogance rules.

And then twenty-years sift by.

Will I ever know?

As Observer, Chronicler of the soul of humanity journeys to the Present moment.

A contemplative life living during John Paul II; His Holiness words to live by, a Theology of the Body beatifies espousal love to be pure, raw, love.

I do not write as I desire; flash fantasy fictional poetry rolled up in one.

But I shall try, one day.

For now, simply words that may or may not make sense.

I am no expert at all.

To me, man is (simply of myself), arrogant, foolish, and blind.

To me, it is not an easy answer.

I think of other men (sinners, really), doing their best not to.

At times I live behind a tall wall that others comprehend not.

I become a voluntary prisoner.

I am, for the sake of man, an ancient contemplative as Jesus once was, with my brothers

Within a private room, one of many within this house.

As Thomas Merton has stated, “In my solitude I have become an explorer [a spiritual pioneer] for the man of this world.”

Modern man, is there good news for a man of ambiguity and arrogance?

I search, and I search, and I search ever so deeper.

Only to discover I shall sleep in no one’s ocean but yours, the ecstatic years, mused [and fused] walking dazed upon fossil-fueled roads smelling as asphalt; was it worth it? To discover God without the shoreline of love. I think not, but to relive a moment of bliss only to lose the essence of who I have become, dwells not in the oversight of my departure, but, in the essence of my homecoming.

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