Where’s ya sting? (Sicker than a sickle)

by Chris Burton

I was 25 when I decided I wasn’t gonna die anymore
Told death, “Don’t come by
For at least 55 years.” No handshake,
No peeking round, just living without the albatross.
I figured it won’t be weighty around 80,
Won’t embrace the cold like an old friend.

It’s just a doorframe.
A window pane.
I reverse Revere not to fear it.
Riding through life Maranatha like,
“King Jesus is coming! King Jesus is coming!”
Praying to meet me is to hear it.

I wanna leave oil everywhere.
Tryna Valdez your life,
BP your situations,
Soul Glo your strife.
I got discharged
Feeling more bitter than swiss chard.
Though I missed hard always knew I was a missed star.

I executed Him, hung with him.
I died with him
He descended.
I rose with him
There’s no prison.

Nor condemnation cuz I’m living in Christ.
Don’t see me shining?
Think I’m living in strife?

Small potatoes pared to emboli.
Pneumonia.
Night sweats.
Prison of the mind.
(How serrated this life gets.)

At 24 death sat on my front door.
Won’t fit in my pouch,
No room in my house anymore.