But what about this intellectual exercise of mine,
stirring up the dust and shifting with the wind?
If I can’t find my way to God unless God shows
the way, there can be no mindless praise,
but what about this praiseless mind of mine?
And what about intelligence? The premise of creation,
the covet of my soul is the core of my design,
yet it’s nothing but a word, only one of many spoken,
and it’s keeping me in place. I’m sworn to intelligence,
another soldier standing at the gate.
If love is perfected by love reciprocated,
why must my intelligence be tethered to the ground?
My mind, my very soul, is confounded and bewildered,
beholden to the mind over mine.
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