The Price Of Silver, The Weight Of Grace Poem by Emmanuel Vallie

Someone once said:
A soul bound for destruction
does not heed the warnings.

How does one stop a prophecy?
If Judas had never sold our Saviour,
who would have fulfilled it?

Tell me—
was Judas aware of his doing,
or did the love of silver cloud his judgment,
while the devil, cloaked in greed,
whispered in his ear:

"Sell him—
and you'll afford a field
to till and call your own."

The motive was not evil,
but the means—corrupted.

So my means held no meaning.
The path I chose was fogged.
Wandering, lost in wilderness.
Spiritually absent.

It's a haunting thing—
to lose your soul
yet still breathe,
still move on.

Move on...
with a body nearing expiry,
as the mold of neglect
surfaces on the skin.

Tears run freely.
How expensive a funeral is!
What a burden to lay
on a family already worn thin.

Still—
live on I must.
And find my soul—
I must.