The wisps of the rainbow
streak through the sky:

The soaring spectrum of the tears
in all its vibrant glory.

Shades: Tints: Lengths: Depths

of redemption

diving onto the land
into the arms of those

who cry for it.

For it is receptive of the tears of men.

Together, the tide hearkens to the beacon

to fill the fallen

with a submersion

of rushing glory!

And in its descent, building charge,
stranding streaks of silver shoot

deep into the realm
piercing the souls

of the worthy:

Throwing them to their knees...

Engulfed with the life: The surge.

Sobbing joy. Laughing praise.

Raising their heads to the sun:

The mighty

city of emeralds

from which the path
of the soaring spectrum

begins.

The shadow of a man
is his own personal devil.

Blackened, charred, slanted, clinging

to his heels.

A parasitic smoke
from the fire of life,

which burns within a man.

The flames of glory
that he churns

whip in blue, breathe in gold
and pulse in white,

and are pure in glow:

emitting no ashes.

But sadistic flames of red

rip furiously through the system

tearing, crashing, razing
  
the harmony.

Conceiving the ash and delivering

the shadow.

The crafty rebel
slinks through the land

his wings are crooked
by the faith

of children.

Weak is the rebel,
who is the swift shade

upon the beautiful earth
under the weeping tree,

the darkened side of the hills,
and the coldness in the dirt.

The rebel owns all that is cold
where the shady children play,

but that is insignificant to
the many glowing children

that dance under the wholesome sun.

For the rebel sees
the children are heated

from their passionate dance
under

their father's warmth,

he offers comfort,
and many twisted amenities

to the children
of the earth.

Those whose dance is not with

fulfillment in their Father

become inclined to fall away

from his beautiful rays upon his land.

But those who dance, with pure hearts

sing the joys of why they dance.

And the falling children not only dance now,
but also sing under the sun

knowing that the night will come,
and all that is good

shall rest.

The man on the streets
born and bred
with rain and grime
upon his head,

drinks from the water
of a nearby creek.

Water flows.
Stagnant week.

The cars of the many
pass him by.

Gush of mist,
squints the eye.

What chills can come
from metal doors
in which he's never
been before.

Another blue.
Another red.

As rain is falling
on his head

he wonders why
he has to drag
while toting pictures
in his bag

of times that put him
on the road
on which he hauls
a heavy load.

Walking on from
where he's been

he hopes to feel the sun,
but then

a car pulls up
beside of him.

He looks to see a girl.

A young one, probably seventeen

in a car of chrome
polished, clean.

With window down,
she says to him

'It looks like you could use a lift! '

The man on the streets

simply exclaims

'What blessings can come through the haze! '

He walks along
to climb aboard
a mighty vessel
of metal doors

that accelerate
into the night
on a four mile ride
of high beam light.

Though through my life success I seethe

I often wonder...

Does man inspire? Or do they breathe

of breaths asunder?

The tests of mortal fears are fierce...

Let us then be kind,

and hasten not to knife and pierce

the soft heart or mind.

For deep behind my *****'ling eye:

The dark demons sing...

A song you never hear me cry

of The Lingering...

I speak not of a course of powers

meaningless in will.

I speak in bold, of forceful powers:

Powers that can ****.

Look around at our existence.

Many feel the sting

on mind and heart, through long persistence

of The Lingering...

The agony of gloom and woe

suffered in the dark-

and trepidation's overflow

leaves a grisly mark...

So, take a great and noble caring

to entreat the mind,

taking courage, always daring

to be warm and kind.

To have compassion in the strife:

What aid that can bring-

to one of us who go through life

in The Lingering!

O God, The Father of my soul...

Where art thou in my control?

Wherein is thy hiding place,

and why hast thou withheld thy face?

I languish in this prison cell...

and my beloved languish hell-

beyond these bars, outside this door...

where is thy presence, I implore?

Where, O God, is thy great hand

as blood is spilled upon thy land?

how long must we suffer thence,

with light and virtue withdrawn hence?

Hast thou, O God, forsaken us?

Hast thou, O God, forgotten us:

The saints come forth in latter days?

Hear our cries, this servant prays......

......My son, peace be unto thy soul:

Thy people art in my control!

Every soul that near thee dies

unto Me doth nobly rise!

Thine adversities, though rough-

and also thine afflictions tough-

Shall be but a moment small.

Thou shalt triumph over all!

Thy friends do stand by thee, and hail

with every weep, and cry, and wail.

For, with me, they have come to rest,

and all their efforts I have blessed.

My tender heart sings a pure, holy song
and nothing can stop it from singing...
The message it holds is perfectly strong
in ears of the curious ringing!

A light in the dark, a hope to the lost:
The hymn of my heart is a treasure!
It has not a worldly, nor tangible cost,
but, gives unto all divine pleasure!

A voice in the choir! It sings not alone!
For many there are that know, too.
For those who desire for truth to be known
this hymn is especially for you...

'I know that He lives: My Savior, my Lord!
And God, in the heavens, does reign!
The scriptures; commandments contain his great word
and are for our profit and gain!

O Children of God! Come now, and abide!
Eternal life is within reach
For those who for now, and forever decide
the laws of our God not to breach! '