Can’t.
By Craig Matthews©2026
Unable, can’t, a defeated deflated rant
strength evaporated and sin paraded
deconstructed man, less than
isolated and abandoned behind enemy lines
do the time
Rescue?
He screwed himself!
The dreams and towers of could haves
stacked higher with each sunrise
endless possibilities over the entire map
smart, too smart and important, resilient
the lie I swallowed
I gotta be strong, step up and in
operating a savior mode program
arrogance sublime and undermined
the “God break me,” prayer again
and more, the sin upon the sin
choices stacked upon a sensitive soul
pressure crushed this heart into coal
pain avoidant realities
brought me to my knees
humility interjected in unclaimed victories
because your sin is better
under that cashmere sweater
the righteous stone was thrown
indignation known and shown
the mass casualty event averted
blood was spilled concrete stained
hearts broken, pained
vehicles destroyed yet life remained
that weight wasn’t measured in pounds
the twisted bent frames and frailties
were pushed inside and down
scars don’t form on open wounds
while they still ooze and bruise
but if they kill you, you’d lose
scars only form on healed wounds
not too wide or too soon
but life was spared,
that’s what mattered, I was told
then my life was stolen
I chose. I hid.
I broke and backslid.
No one’s to blame but me
and this broken busted frame and sin
I was slain
Eighteen years ago, I died. Bled out.
From trying to hide and bide my time
shame became me and trained me
to hide my hide
but life was spared
while mine died
then my time extended
while the thank-you's suspended
hands were washed
and consciences cleared
the sin because of sin
is somehow discounted.
But life was spared
so the business remounted
everyone has left, bereft
my grenade exploded and unloaded
on innocent lives
those twisted frames and frailties
were pushed inside and down
scars don’t form on open wounds
not too wide, or too soon
Unable, can’t, a defeated deflated rant
He can, has—will resurrect
those lives that were spared.
He wept in the waiting, graveside
even knowing what was coming
on Sunday morning
But his life wasn’t spared
the rescue prepared
blood was spilled and concrete stained
my soul reclaimed
but who will tug these grave clothes free?
Not me, I can’t see
without you helping me.
I’m unable unstable.
Alone at the table
I need a brother
my history has shown
I’d do it alone,
but I
can’t.
