The thought had crossed my mind,
of you,
from time to time.
Our growing affection,
our growing life.
Learning to embrace change
in a world which never stops.
Hope is like a swinging grace,
He swoops in and takes my place.
I welcome Optimism,
He’s the family
I never had
when life grew sad.
“Rejoice,” He said,
When is it enough?
Struggle and strive,
for what?
Enough is enough,
enough is enough. . .
When?
When will it be?
Every hit or miss,
mostly miss,
mostly miss.
In my Antagony
I fail to see
the point.
I’d love to have my world
painted in gorgeous,
but life is not that.
Life is not painted in gorgeous.
Life is printings of dated maps,
covering unsightly holes
in the walls of,
“I didn’t ask for this.”
The curse of humanity,
woven to repeat history.
The world is beyond my gaze
of masterful praise.
It spoke to me through
the rhythm of the waterfalls.
I look the other way-
A picture I once saw,
now hanging
on the holey walls
of my memory.
A river stone to save
I’m lost without faith
in my broken space.
Shattered glass-
nothing broke.
I’ve awoken
to spoken
woes of attempts
at peace.
And Worry will not cease
to keep me searching
for the sound of shattered glass
in my broken space.
It seems as if the sound
is from outside the grounds,
and everything around
can’t shatter Growing Faith
in my broken space.
A story left and told, it seems,
the season has a hold of me.
God’s plan strikes me, so odd,
and how could He? Why would He
let such a gentle soul
suffer as He’s done?
Remembrance of the Guilty Flowers.
The beauty of nature’s need
to grow to seed
and bloom brand new.
Fear is on the surface
of worry and wasted time.
The pointed finger of guilt and shame,
remind you,
you are not to blame.
Convenience Kills the need
to know the truth.
Hope is; wishing,
waiting,
anticipating,
crossing your fingers,
a feeling that lingers.
When let down,
She’s Commiserating.
A spark inside-
telling you,
“I’m along for the ride.”
And when you least expect
she’ll nudge her head through fear,
making faith quite clear
in the midst of the insincere.
I exchanged all the little things
for monstrosities.
Can you believe me when I say;
I traded in the hills for mountains,
carved my face,
and moved on with my life?
Yet I gave up the forest for the thickets
because they were familiar to me.
And in the thicket,
I found my crown
of esteem and dreams.
Queen Of The Cattails,
they say as I stand
proud in the swamp.
Where no one can see my face,
but the frogs who turn to Kings.
They believed in me.
I’m struggling to see
that the universe
is much bigger than me.
What puzzles me and I
-is myself.
Thoughts of the creator,
who was never created,
but rather existed existentially.
Beyond our beliefs,
lies a thing we could
never understand-
The reach of God’s hand,
could we all be here standing
below his fingertips?
Who knows?
My understanding is earthly,
humanitarian as I try to imagine
what that hand looks like.
Or is it a hand at all?
Is it just a wafting presence,
a glow around us?
God Created The Flies,
and the worm that ate
at Apathetic Happiness.
He was a second of shade,
which withered into Death Wishes.
So be still the anger
of misunderstandings,
and spare this great city
from spiritual darkness.
There is no Christmas in July
when it’s already August.
Rainy days surprise
-adds another wave
to an otherwise peaceful puddle.
It’s All Cuckoo Clocks
in Horror’s head.
Rainfall floods
the streets
with dread.
Fibs fill my head
as I unplug the drain,
I will not be washed
in the brain.
Now see, I know much better
than this rainy weather,
and unlike the unkind,
I can overcome
battles of the mind.