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You are...
the authority that spoke all into creation,
the same power in my mouth to speak miracles into life,
a voice to the broken silence like a roaring lion;
the Lion of Judah in our hearts.

You are...
the thoughts to inspire me again, when enemies speak worry,
not like the promises of man, who will fail me in time,
your promises are eternal; for you’re not bound by the
limits of space and time.

You are...
the overseer of me when I don’t see myself,
the light of my heart in the dark backgrounds of daily life,
the softest whisper in the world’s chaotic winds,
the spoils of sufficient needs in my life and others,
the loving Father, Redeemer, and Holy spirit I have in trinity,
that has done so much for me.

Words aren’t enough to express all that you are to me.
I.
In the beginning
God was,
And the blackbird
Was not.

II.
And Adam called it a blackbird;
And that was the name thereof.
A robbery: it starts of, by overcharging a people of  their everyday basic commodity. Honestly! Are we all not trying to live that way,
But how do we survive in a life of less regards, and an apology?Seems a price tag’s sayings is, “I’m more than your worth”

The entitled: are so many undeserving, as lightning is in a man’s bones; his enlightenment is struck in a nerve of knowing there’s not much he owns. Though he certainly owes.

A dream: of working long overdue hours in their head, the day is gone but one man’s labour never ends. A waking dream; deep breath out for there’s a lot to be taken in. Still in the reality of it only being good at taking.

A bigger than life experience, unfortunately with a small package.
Miss your train of thought; it's best to wait for the next carriage.
Off the rails, is there a better way to living? Seems hard in doing things yourself, but also harder to be Christian.

So understand my only greatest prayer in life is to find wisdom.
Andrew Fort May 12
The river is quiet
with velvety darkness.
The moon leaves her perch,
the clouds as her garment.

A trail of dreams,
lucent with meaning,
battered, not broken,
follows, careening.


He rowed through the bayou,
  Searching for the stars;
But the branches of the cypresses
  Had captured them in jars.
His little iron lantern,
  Flick’ring kernel of light,
Won’t discern though it burns
  Gold as sylvite.

You saw him there,
  A statue of wax;
You took your hammer
  And shattered the glass.
Though, like a bird,
  He’d molted his cloak,
You remembered the password—
  To which he awoke.


You did not know (for how could you?)
  That I was all alone.
But still you deigned to look at me
  And bind my broken bone.

My anxious wings had taken flight;
  The perch bore not a trace—
You taught me how to not recoil
  When human hands embrace.

You didn’t know what you had done.
You didn’t know what you had done.
You couldn’t have known what you had done.
  But thank you anyway.

Oh, Jonathan—
May your heart enfold:
Can’t you see your gold?
Can’t you see you’re gold?


The constellations still evade—
  I’ll climb the tree.
Keep ascending; no dismay
  (This I decree!)
I’ll catch a star, I swear, some way—
  On wings of chim-choo-rees.
But if I die before that day,
  Will you take one home for me?

. . . . .

There in that desert,
Hot as the stars,
I played my harp
And you the guitar

And with the smell
Of creosote
On the cool wind
You shed your coat.


Wending through the branches,
  Aloft in the sky,
Laughing and joking
  All through the night,
You found your love,
  To my great delight—
And when you pair embrace,
  I can’t help but sigh.

Let me bear that spear
  Thrown by your dad.
(“Don't worry or fear;
  The blood’s not so bad!”)
No!—could you have been saved
  Had I been there in time?—
For I’d rather brave
  That dagger in your spine!


Jonathan, my dearest friend,
  Won’t you lift your eyes?
Though you bleed and from there grieve,
  The seed of God’s inside.

I see your fear, though not so clear,
  For you take care to guard.
But you will neither raze nor pierce
  Your son where you’ve been scarred.

You hardly know how much you’ve grown.
You hardly know how much you’ve grown.
You can’t imagine how you’ve grown.
  But you have. You have.

Oh, Jonathan—
May your heart enfold:
Will you see your gold?
Will you see you’re gold?

. . . . .

The grass may wilt and flowers fade,
  But He steadfast remains.
And though carved ice resigns to melt,
  It runs into the lake.

For what are we but jars of dust?—
  Made that we may bear
The image of Him who painted us,
  Who deigns to hear our prayer.

We do not know where we will go.
We do not know where we will go.
We can’t begin to fathom where we’ll go.
  But—know it’s not in vain.

. . . . .

When moths at last consume my clothes,
  Will you remember?
Where stone-faced, dusty night arose,
  Will you remember?
When light endures its final throes,
  Will you remember?
Should I be lost within this grove,
  Will you remember?

When street-doors shut and grinding slows,
  We will remember.
Though hunters maim and shades enclose,
  We will remember.
All praise to God—the veil’s deposed;
  We can remember.
Because from death the Son arose,
  We can remember
  He will remember.

When, from my grave, the cypress grows,
  You will remember.
And when you sleep 'neath mountain snow,
  I will remember.
The epilogue eternal goes—
  “We shall remember!”
Forevermore we shall compose,
  cleansed by the ember.


      Oh, Jonathan—
      May your heart enfold
            (And should I be told?):
      Do you see your gold?
      Do you see—you’re gold?
Á Liam,
mon ami—
mon frère.
.
“A friend loves at all times,
and a brother is born for adversity.”
Proverbs 17:17
Of all the mothers in my life,
     Mom, you're the very best of all.
I thank You, God, for my very good mom,
     The bestest mom since mankind's fall.
I'm not all that good,
I'm not all that bad,
Maybe one day,
I'm as bad as a person can be,
Maybe on another day,
I'm one of the best you can meet,

Raised in a small town,
Where people gossip
from sun up to sun down,
Brought up poor in a broken
family, only added more,

When I'm out and about,
I get those judgemental stares,
with whispers of, "she's hopeless,
she's beyond repair,

I get worked up so
I purposely give them a reason to
gasp for air,

Of course they all claim to be Christians,
The type that choose clean blue water
to be baptised in,
But I was baptised in muddy water
and I'm glad to say," hey listen up,
I was baptised in muddy water so
I guess that makes me too ***** for
your kind?"

Then I smile to myself because
I know  something they must not,
JESUS WAS BAPTISED IN MUDDY
WATERS, as well.
I imagine it kind of went like this:
Upon meeting Jesus, John said: "I have need to be baptized of thee, and comest thou to me? I imagine Jesus told John it was only right to do so, I can imagine John trying to convince Jesus to at least let him find cleaner waters but Jesus knew so He refused.

You see in the time of Jesus’s baptism, the Jordan river and surrounding areas was no less than now, a river full of muck, *****, muddy, and gross looking, you can’t see two inches into it today nor could you then.

These very people called Christians are the same people who judge so harshly, through the centuries they've compared Jesus's baptism to our own,  with an understandable preference for the clear waters of a Blue Hole over the muddy waters of the Jordan and beyond,

So yeah, I'm all messed up in the head,
Better the head than the heart,
But you've already judged my part.

So if you ever run out stuff to gossip about, just think back and remember,
the small town girl that was baptised in muddy water.
- Author Ven J Arnold / SacredInkedBlood
The word Christian is so diluted that I refuse to be labeled as one. Christianity was a new religion started by Paul. Honestly, I know many and they do gossip, intentionally hurt others and think they're way is the only right way. Look at all the wrongs done in the name of Christianity. However I do believe that there are some genuine people who label themselves as a Christian and proudly. https://m.facebook.com/VenjencieCliftonArnold
The world's a farce and false, and You
Alone, good God, are Truth and true.
thepoeticwit Apr 13
we are wanderers in a foreign land, exiles in search of home.
nomads who shift through dirt and sand.

Is this where we belong?
A desert, a wilderness.
A path made through promise of a kingdom paradise,
so close and yet so far away.

40 days and 40 years
are but a lifetime
our lives are but a wilderness
though we fast and pray
trials and temptations come our way

Be not fooled by Devil's sweet whispers
But continue past these 40 days
and though you fail in one way

There is One who fasted and prayed
overcame, and calls to you

"Behold, the Kingdom is near"

Repent.
mindlessly passed through to the end of Lent, and I didn't really fast and pray, what more succumbing to my sins. But a firm reminder of Jesus who succeeded in His fast and prayer, right through His passion, death and ressurection. Though I fail, He succeeds on my behalf, and has mercy on me.
Lord, tread me down if, Lord, You must.
Lord, tread me down in my disgrace.
Lord, tread me down, grind me to dust,
But put Your footprints on my face.

Lord, tread me down, the LORD eclipse,
And stomp me where my words I eat:
Deign to allow my ***** lips
To kiss the bottoms of Your feet.
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