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.

1 comment:

  1. Avid men and timid men.
    Like rabbits, swine'n hen?
    For not that we lost our grievances,
    but we shown our allegiance.
    A ruffled feather of hen just might entice a kicking...

    Richard the Just led men oh so bravely,
    lords and lads lay lost least living was Richard..
    Wielding his self, sword slicing soldier's sides and eyes,
    he brought a foot to where none hid.
    All there, they find next to be discovered
    by the bold, bold, bold
    article of saint Richard.