Monday, November 18, 2013

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.