Mystery;
That is faith.
But can we have faith
in this world?
When it is so broken;
How did Michael Jackson’s face change?
Struck me while I sat
In church wondering the mysteries
Of the world.
Was it he who changed,
To fit into the world?
Facelifts: nip here and tuck there?
Was it nature?
Pigmentation malfunction?
Or us, who could not handle change,
That made him alter to
Make us feel less uncomfortable?
How different have we become
To make others feel safe,
But in doing so,
Fundamentally,
Lose ourselves altogether?

Out of 100 people
Who were around that day
Who stopped
Who didnt instantly walk away
Who understood the options
Who expressed an opinion,
Out of those 100 people
When asked a binary question
All 100 said: yes,
They do answer questions
From strangers.

How
can
something
smell
so
sweet
yet
taste
so
bitter?

Do we know where our
time is heading
Where thou the
  Inner-child
Walk with faith
New birth for  both
   God promise land

Spiritual hug hand

  *       *        
 Love Yearning
To be punctual or late
Love of fate
Comes when you
      Arrive
Bluest sky high five
 You take a skin- dive

  Good feeling
  Cure healing
*        *        *
The vibration
What do we know?
  Your in control
Your full body
Godly soul
Holy water dive
What do we know?

Go with the flow
Scenic drive
 Your time to survive
To love- run- or hide
Do we smell a rose
I suppose true love
*        *        *        
Heavenly power
All Mighty
   God above sun eyes glow
New birth celebration show
Your birth or what's now
Wake up call or last shot 
Godly light angelic face 
 
Chosen one rejoice to trace
Embrace your age
Every facet heart of a magnet
Bright sunset you met
Eyes focused all mind-set
  *        *        *
Meditation all healing wet
Godly voice to transform  
But God knows
  *     *     *     *
To envision all conditions
Dressed on a mission
But nothing to confess
Yourself worth in uniform
Somehow you smell the fire  
Darkness feeling a hint of low
But you rise up different world

   *       *        *
Maturing growing
A healing flower blooming*
A cactus of fighting pins
Positive win like a genius

As a kid, was I
as accomplished a storyteller
as I remember?
Did I truly evade consequence?
As an adult, was it a little similar?

Is it just me?  
Or lately have I found more truth?
Do the stories seem to you
to be intertwined with unexpected twists?
Do they immerse you,
despite their incompleteness?
Do you find that this gives space
for imagination, for permission
for grace to flower?
Are you surprised by the colour?
Does the sweetness of the fragrance
stagger you as it does me?

Have I always been a storyteller?
A teller of stories?
And are they really unfinished?
Is there more fragrance to come?