Tell me, where is my mic?

 

When my throat isn't closed-tight

The wind, attacking my soul

I'm losing control

Yet a gentle breeze it is to the young,

To the old.

 

But how can a hurricane

Sway the hard-headed,

There's no calm ahead.

Only the eyes that are red

Then blue from the dead,

Painting green on the trees

That glorifies the shade.

 

Tell me, where is my mic?

 

When I'm not crazy

From the insane images of daisies

With hope in the distance and

Roses caught in mid-sentence.

Where clouds are so high,

Too high to reach

But not a limit to those with expensive planes

First class to a pit of flames

No ejecting option

No rain

No elephant in the room that stinks,

Reeking of their own selfishness.

 

Tell me, where is my mic?

 

When me, myself and I

leap with a hand from Him

The one who had tossed the ladder

Made from plastic and "matter"

Of the unrighteous.

To use a breath, instead

A hand, in the land

My eyes that will rise

From the praise that lifts

And the voice that exalts

And my eyes that see

That not all the dirt and grime

Is a curse, but a gift

From all that is holy.

 

When my scars are a testament

An underlying accident--

No, not an accident

But a story,

A comment,

Of those anointed.

 

Saved. 

 

So tell me, where is my mic?