His own God

The path of the scarred and bitter brings little delight to my being.

The more I grasp to control the melancholy mood that surrounds the four walls of what could be a home, the more my soul weeps.

Is it me?

Have I not greeted my demons head on, showing little fear for what they think of me, for I know who I am?

What has he, "a God" to himself, accomplished?

Have not the tsunami like waves of depression misplaced him?

A prisoner to his own fears of futility; I can love him…maybe I can save him…but he won’t let me.

Instead I watch him drown staring blankly at the arms stretched out before him.

Tears...that's all have left to give and sadly I catch them in my own hands watching as my sadness drips through my fingers on to the floor.

Softly I whisper.."I tried"...No mere begging, tears, nor unconditional love can keep him near me.

A young angel climbs upon my lap, a true vision of beauty, the son of the lost and broken...but also the son of the redeemed.

His son, full of innocent happiness and not an ounce of discontent with the world.

A present; a gift from the highest being known to man for those who believe.

Can he himself, "a God", create such an exquisite design?