The Lie.

sitting silently, minding my own,
when a deep undertone resonates,
"you will never be enough."
caught off guard, i scramble to my mental feet,
"who's there?" say i.
"does it matter?" groans my past,
"because you're a disappointment still."

doesn't have to be a garden,
under the shade of forbidden fruit,
the accuser accuses still.
"failure. fraud. mockery."
i can hear the voices rumble.
taking on accents, personality and tonality,
even individuality of words i've heard before.
permanently engraved on my heart,
the accuser simply reads the script.
who needs others to verbalize them,
when my own diction and emphasis is flawless?
"comparison. ugly. lacking. worthless. "
like a never ending track.

none of my fig leaves seem thick enough,
but even my walls of stone cannot block it:
the voices are inside my head.

my tape must be re-recorded,
the cartridge must be re-filled,
the house must be cleaned through and through.
temple torn down and rebuilt in three days?
"i'll turn this den of thieves and liars
into my Father's house once again."
says He.
torn down, rebuilt, made new;
the liars homeless, the truth lodging well.

Father, would you clean this shoddy shack,
and take up lodging here?
would you turn this disarray,
with ugly graffiti written on the walls,
into a beautiful mansion, fit for your honor,
with poems of worship, written on her doors.
banishing the serpent forever from the garden?