Image: James Gana/Pexels)

Art represents the heart.
No wonder it sometimes cuts to the heart
Problem is, things fell apart from the start
When Eve went for the bait,
Now, we only compose to feed the lust.

We sing like that about women because how can we imagine a “new creation”?
We hum like that about mammon, yet Sunday we sang, the Lord is our portion.
Thing is, we express ourselves little when our highest loves are fickle
Half-bit apple introduced sweat, toil, thorns and thistle.

Now until Christ makes whole, the poet only got a corrupted heart
They might grab the mic, but unless wrought by the Spirit,
All they’ve got is Adam’s original beat.