Ghostly shadows, but what ghost really casts a shadow—cousins? The ghost and a shadow, still in my room at the edge of the bed.
A ghost of unhappiness, and a shadow of these lonely despairs. Both related.
Mother nature taught me how to grow, Father time forces me to wait for it. The Mistress of death would love to rush the process. Brothers in arms, alarming the gun sounds in my head—my constant ringing headaches. Sister company, sharing the pain of a common parent entity
I see that picture from 20 years ago of the kid in the blue dress smiling - throwing the feeling - with balled up fists. Acting 'inappropriate'. My family and I laugh at this picture - at the obviousness, the uneasiness. This is me asking - is too late to apologize for the moments missed
The many moving things, moving scenes; that are stuck in between my eyes. Look at life; and it's fragile creations, through the window's glass. Held on the weight of time, those holding onto their past. But it all must change; from the old seasons to those anew. The many winters of cold, soon surpasses on the grass.
So many pictures, so many little things, and so many moments. All caught in the prettiness of an everlasting flower. A tower plant, trying to kiss the glorious sun, the Son of Man, and the sweetest rose.
The holies of all holies; resides inside of me. Walking the testimonials upon my feet. For how far have I gone to seek? I've seen blackness, as a changing tide of darkness. A ***** sheet; barely covering the littlest sin. But there's still the greatest of all light within.
A Christ within me.
How are my eyes shut to the window; and their curtains covering itself on a dream? A dream to be free.
Freedom of will. Freedom of speech. Freedom to choose peace.
I scratch the tiny hairs under my chin, biting the collar of my shirt with my dry lips. There's no duty to being empty all your life. No command to live that way, or any sort of drill.
But there's a thirst on my tongue, running down to my heart. My spirit's cup is waiting to be overfilled. And to go on and spill.
I as myself, only long to be spirit filled. Holy Spirit come inside of me.
A thousand pictures in the window, and I only long for the one picture of Him.
emotional kata series of strokes against the resistance of canvas a picture evolves almost like nature becoming organic an extension of emotion battle conquering calamity the brush talks even shouts some passages poem based in pigment and oil at the end everyone is exhausted something happened beyond the reasonable control of evolution
never once have i paid attention to the way your eyelashes, long and dainty, brush your skin. never once have i thought of how that scar is oh so visible on your lip. never once have i considered the way your eyes pierce mine.
yet if i have not though of these, how can i picture you so clearly?