poem thing (hearts)

A story itself cannot show all this-
A mortal shell so fragile against the void
touched but for a moment,
and all the angels speak-
not the fables or lore of deeds,
or the coming of what shall be- 
yet the space itself: 
resting only in the heart of our soul, untouched-
waiting; awaits to be called-
to that very purpose beyond this world
weaved into us before our creation...
a seed of dreams seen only in the eye of the creator...
A fallen form redeemed not in works or claims
but in faith... without need.

darkness amoung the hills

There was a feature which invoked a sense within..
perhaps it was the silhouette of a tree against the night mountain sky.
Regardless, the meaning instilled a motive why that looker might carry on.

What great potency within this one, this human among humans, all themselves so very potent as well. Yet there in their dreams weaves a construct fit for motives gleamed from shows made in a tact which sets to persuade and distract. And enacted then in time, years or more for this to show, rises up a fallow feature in those quotas dreamed and sown. Desperation of the essence in the credulousness we wrought then does seek to wind it's righteousness in vagueness loaned and bought... from the forms encountered briefly as....

fuck it YOLO

Seeking the Source

Hello I am Kyle.

I write this blog.

IT comes and goes as you can see, now.

Of course, one cannot consume themselves endlessly and wrest out the patterned form.

Seeking the source.