Imperfection.
Etched into my being.
By my own demise.
Entitling me,
The right to nothing.

Glorious misconception.
As if my own doing condemned me.
A glorious discovery.
As if I had sealed my fate,
Forever doomed to peril.

Ironic illogic.
That we should deny,
The One Who created us.
As if what we do,
Would deny us?

Perplexed expressions,
Dance across your features.
Trying to understand my being…
Impossible on one’s own.
Intricately woven in His hands.

I scream the existance of a Creator.
With my own very existance.
We all scream His existance.
Whether we deny Him,
Or embrace Him.

Imperfections.
Etched into my being.
Erased only by the blood.
Belonging to the Son,
Of the Creator.

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About Robin Elizabeth

My name is Robin Elizabeth and I'm 21. I do not create with my own ability, but with the gift God has given me.

One response »

  1. willowdot21 says:

    Thank you that is a lovely poem.

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