The Prodigal

I am the Prodigal Son,
always have been and
probably always will be,
but the Father waits,
my God, He waits and
the thought of it rips and
tears me to shreds, pieces
thrown to the wind and
carried to the four corners
of the world, in and out of
churches, houses, museums,
tumbling down streets and
up steps, crumpled into a ball
of trash that lands at His feet.
He picks it up, flattens it out
on His ample table, places it
in a frame of wood, and hangs
it in a place of love and honor.
It is His image after all,
an image I cannot outrun.


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