My voice may not be sung.
But tis in the things done
In the choices I make — 
Good, bad. Unknown, they leave their wake — 

In the stories wrote,
In the battles fought.
In the colours I paint,
And decisions without constraint.

On the quiet places, it resonates,
Growing deeper with faith,
The tune changes,
With the new victories, He arranges.

Are we but pawns on a chessboard
That God just moves about haphazardly?
Or are we placed strategically;
And through God’s plans can claim: “Checkmate!”

They say with age comes wisdom --

Yet, I am now at the stage where I know less.
I have piqued and critiqued
Myself and others, to the point of illness,
Sublimating for acceptance,
serving and fighting for the rights of the masses,

But --

Killing myself quietly;
Loving others and receiving stress
Oblivious in blindness.

Wide eyes now,
And on the eternal quest,
to love wholeheartedly, subjugating wild-brainless
And embracing my divine mess.

Why don't the heart and mind
speak the same language?

Is it because-

the mind matures
and
the heart remains a child?

Uncovered consciousness,
truth from time stories stones tell,

great madnesses, raging troops of boys,
whose fathers wandered off

vacat

we wait, we wet the thirsty clay
we wait, we let it dry and become scripture.

If I know anything,
it’s that I’ll wait—
silently,
without reaching out,
without calling.

But if you return,
I’ll open my arms
like they were never empty,

and love you
with the kind of heart
that forgets
who broke it.

Our thoughts,
And our ways,
Become whiter than snow
When we gaze, without haze,
Lovingly upon the Lord.
We rest, cease the quest
And invest where our fortune
Is outside of time;
outside of oughts.

Somehow it is always my fault,
I'm the one getting hurt and yet
They blame me for their own assault
And still my pain, they just forget