Fallen: A Poem

Posted On September 9, 2021

Pride is a pit. A pit full of darkness.

Between mountains it lies hidden.

The Boy wasn’t looking for it. No, he was looking for something higher.

He was climbing the mountain slowly, his feet moving higher with every word of praise he received.

“They love me,” he had thought.

And maybe it was true.

But it wasn’t him they loved. It was the image he’d made for himself.

The image he spent so much time crafting, dreaming up.

The image that was perfect. Flawless.

It was loved.

What kind of love was that?

A sickly love.

A twisted love.

Perhaps it wasn’t love at all.

But The Boy loved to feel loved.

.

When he treads the line on the mountains, so high in the air,

One with the sky itself,

Elevated,

Raised up,

Higher than man,

One with heaven itself,

His feet stumble.

He tries to catch his balance

But it’s too late.

He falls headlong into the pit of pride,

That pit which at first looked beautiful,

So high in the air.

But pride is not high.

Pride is lower than the deepest valley

And stronger than the mountain itself.

It grabs hold of him,

Tight

Suffocating.

He can’t breathe.

Gasping for air

Groping hands

Reach for the beautiful sky.

The darkness closes in and he is swallowed by it.

He is overwhelmed

Suffocated

By his own beautiful, artificial image.

He can’t move for fear he may drown in it.

“I used to be loved,” he thinks.

“I used to be loved.”

He thought that standing on the mountain, so high, meant that he was loved.

He was wrong.

So wrong.

He closes his eyes and tries shut out the darkness.

He closes his eyes and tries to look at you instead.

He’s unworthy. He doesn’t expect you to let him.

He’s covered in filth and surrounded by the darkness, thick and impenetrable.

He lied to you.

He’s a thief.

But the memory of what he used to have is with him still,

The joy he once had. Before he set even one foot on the mountain.

He’s fallen.

He can’t climb from this pit of his own pride.

He’s been looking at himself, his own petty reflection, thinking he was everything.

But thinking of you now, he sees that he was wrong. You are everything.

He sees your eyes, sad but full of compassion.

He takes your gentle hand and you pull him from the pit.

He made a mistake.

No—it wasn’t a mistake. He meant to do it.

He’s sorry.

Sometimes he believes that he doesn’t need anything but himself.

But he was wrong.

He doesn’t let himself meet your eyes. He’s ashamed.

.

And I? The writer, the third person who watches the scene unfold in my own brain,

In my vibrant inner world of imaginations both dark and light.

In my imagination I see it happen, and so I write.

I am the boy as I write,

I am in his mind;

 I feel his pain, his longing, his shame.

In a way, it is my own.

.

The Boy and I feel your hand on our face as you turn it towards your own.

“That’s okay,” you tell us gently. “Try not to climb that mountain anymore.”

We nod, both terrified and enraptured by your presence.

You smile at The Boy and I.

“But,” you say, “if you do, I’ll come and pull you from the pit again.”

.

And Lord,

Thank you for your mercy

And your goodness

And your love

And your forgiveness.

Without it I would be in the pit still.

Your love is not twisted.

.

No, your love is Life itself.