You right now:
“Weren’t the olden days
The golden days!”

You in 50 years:
“Weren’t the olden days
The golden days!”

You right now:
“Wait, are you talking about right now?”

You in 50 years:
“Sure am!”

You right now:
“How?”

You in 50 years:
“If only you were me for a day,
sigh…
You would see.”

From inside a room of computers
I look out and see
Nature smiling at me.
I look back at my screen.

To write is to breathe.
Letting out the inner heart,
the inner mind,
the inner life.

Write, for it is good.
Don't wait to be understood.
Just write like nobody can stop you.
Write out your dreams,
your revelation.

Write new and fresh lines.
For there is a whole world in you
to let out.
And time is short.

To write is to breathe!
Don't hold anything in.
Be free.
Be alive.

A million miles from house,
Still I am found at home.
For a place is merely space,
Where one can still be alone.
A home is something more,
Made with love and care not wood.
Based on faithfulness,
Designed by God as good.
I see in fleeting life,
An echo of my home.
A family called church,
Those whom are God's own.
And as great as this echo is,
Still more is left to see.
This family is great,
Full of saints of history.
They tell of righteous love,
Of joy forevermore,
I listen to their tale,
And hope for whats in store.
I hear from them its glorious,
Where worship will not cease,
Where sorrows are no more,
And there is endless peace.
Where the lion will lay with lamb,
Where every good things dwells,
And the source of all this good,
Overflows like a bursting well.
And as I set my heart,
On this land yet far away,
I feel my hope renewed,
That there I'll be someday.
But for now I will wait,
On this passing world I know,
For His coming is sure,
And with Him comes my home.

No poem perfect.

  Each word hand-picked.

    Value camouflaged by defect

      Won't be spotted without respect.