That’s Redemption.

When I began writing Redemptions, I wasn’t trying to define redemption in the abstract. I wanted to show it happening—in lived places, ordinary pressures, and familiar struggles. In fact, Redemptions didn’t even begin as a concept: it began as a feeling expressed in poetry. But that’s another story. Back to the Book of Poetry, Redemptions.

Each cycle in the book starts with something that binds.

Sin.

Imitation.

Constraint.

Seriousness.

Noise.

Daily grind.

And each cycle turns—not by escaping the struggle, but by meeting it honestly until something loosens. A burden lifts. Breath returns. Perspective shifts. Joy sharpens. Silence steadies. Endurance holds.

In the Introduction, I summarize each movement the same way—That’s redemption.

Redemption is not just forgiveness, though it includes forgiveness.

It’s not just deliverance, though it often requires endurance.

Here, redemption is the moment when grace interrupts what had quietly taken control—when blindness gives way to sight, when laughter rescues a dulled heart, when silence restores what noise has eroded.

The poems don’t argue for redemption. They witness it. Six times over, across six dimensions of life.

If there’s a single thread running through the book, it’s this:

something binds you; something frees you.

That turning—sometimes sudden, sometimes slow, sometimes playful, sometimes costly—is where redemption lives.