It took you to call me
Not once. But more than enough to make my ears rumble
I heard you clearly, but I stood confused
Who could this be and what does he need from a poor soul like me?
You were such awe to my sight and marvel to my thoughts

How can I, of nothing but filth and despair
Attend the request of the pure and mighty?
I tried a look at you, not once but a zillion times
All I could communicate was how undeserving I am at your feet.

Who am I? Who am I? Who am I?
To set foot at the cabinet of the Lord of hosts?
So I stood in utter enduring infamy.
I could feel the pinch of my guilt and the stench of my shame.
How could I approach a man in such fragrance with my belligerence?

So I reasoned to kill my hearing and turn to say goodbye.
“I’m sorry. I can’t attend your call”, I said in pain
But then, before I would leave,
I took a last glance and that gave me a reason to stay.
My last look, met the full you.

Your call was too lovely for me to avoid.
That small yet still voice was too enticing to my neglect
So my heart turned me about
And finally, into your embrace I run.
Under your shelter I hid my guilt

You stood with me in the rain
And shared in my pain
Even when I wasn’t bain
You became my gain
Just to make me a saint

You gave me life
You stood by me
And showed me how to live
I enjoyed your company
And melted in your love

But poor me, so poor me
All so soon I had grown familiar with your love
I felt the need for more.
I felt I could live me
I felt the pleasure in you wasn’t whole

So I left your embrace
Though you never looked elsewhere
You screamed my name in tears.
But now I had no ears.
I run away before you could share

I run to my own wit
I run to my own desire
Little did I know?
That the treasure I saw elsewhere as my willed craving
Was a clutter upon me by my fowler.

It was when I was embedded in the misery of what my will called joy
Which was actually a coy by my adversary
That I mused and remembered your call once again
That lovely touch: that fragrance which took away my brouhaha

I remembered that the joy I ever sort was you
But here I am now.
Caught in the web of my prosecutor’s snare
That I’m now turned into a bait
Even unto the capture of others

Yet again, here I stand accused
Here I stand bemoaning
In the chains of my guilt
In the shame of my rebellion
Missing Love Badly.

Obed Mensah-Benyin ( OMB)

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