Bumbling
I mourn in the last minutes of a bumbling.
Bumbling, Bum-ba-ling, the buzz
That I hear when my daemon comes-
Not daemon, no, the Spirit,
Air, hovering over waters,
Whatever you call it.
Call it? No, I cannot call it.
By God's grace can I even accept it
When it comes?
Who am I, oh who am I?
Who am I to question the bumbling?
To mourn when I am too late?
God please forgive me,
I am wicked in every way.
When i forget that winning's not an action,
But a state. And I am,
I live surrounded by states.
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▾ This Poem's Voice
Your Poem's Voice
Blends personal spiritual struggle with abstract questioning of divine acceptance and states of being.
Dense with existential questions, theological concerns, and philosophical paradoxes compressed throughout.
Deeply negative: mourning, wickedness, self-recrimination, spiritual anxiety dominate throughout.
Urgent questioning and internal turmoil create tension; repetitions and fragmentation drive kinetic momentum.
Approximately 22 lines; falls solidly in 16-30 line range.
Moderate: personification (Spirit, daemon), metaphors (states of being), but much declarative questioning too.
Pure lyric internal voice; introspective first-person meditation without narrative or dramatic persona shift.
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