To everything there is a season.
To everything there is a season.
Oh a time for every purpose under heaven.
Exactly a time to be born and a time to die
Virtually a special time to plant and pluck
Even a time to **** and a time to heal
Renovation by breaking down n building up
You know there’s time to weep n one to laugh
There is a time to mourn and a time to dance
Heave n cast away stones n gather together
In time to embrace n a time refrain embracing
Naturally a time to get and a time to lose
Grant y’self a time to keep n one to cast away
Then a time to read poetry and then compose
Have yourself a a time to keep your silence
Eventually finding your time to wisdoms speak
Romancing with a time to love n a time to hate
Experiencing a time of war n a time of peace
In what profit hath he that laboured for God.
Simply for the benefit of the fellowship of man
As I have seen the laborious efforts of men n
Sons of men to be exercised in t’ work they do
Everything made beautiful in God’s good time
Also He hath set the the world in their hearts
So that no man can find out the work that God
Onward from the beginnings unto the end.
Now is the time for All Men to do good in Life.
Written by Philip.
November 11th 2018.
An Acrostic rendition of To everything there is a season.
To everything there is a season
Stagnant azure silently peels
above the clouds of old oak
that hover mutely behind It.
Fleeting sunlight is obscured
behind shadows of daytimes
passing, its frailty now closed .
Beyond this fleeting moment
is a cloudless rendition of
happiness unlocked momentarily.
When Bach and Amadeus
Died in their sleep and agony
I wonder if they knew
What they had achieved
Was it worth the cost?
When the Alps were 145 centimeters
distant from today
and the earth still folds your music
In between its subducting page
I want your great stratovolcanical violins
To extrude pumice and grindstone
to crush sweet music in between
Mt. Rainier and an unknown garden
made somewhere deep
in my quantum dream
The sky takes your notes
It is a great teacher as well
and swell, it does
me a quadrillion dreams
in every iterative puff of smoke
In every collapse of possibility
of every cat ground to paste upon the street
and all the ones that purr locally
In the arms of some caring soul
A lesser spirit dreaming
In the arms of their god
You play with a broken leg
or an unattached eye
or shaved cilia
And yet still
none but ourselves
His Dark Angel smiled;
cold lips warmed by passion.
The trance compelling.
Desire for the flesh burned
in immortal rage.
The snow fell.
His Golden Muse lay slain;
warm blood cooled by liberation.
The death an afterthought.
Indifference for life
in mortal depression.
The snow fell. The winds rose.
A spirit retreated to the
only embrace that remained.
The Angel stirred in the shadows.
A knife fell.
Taking the bloodied hand
he clasped it tightly in his.
The snow fell. The winds rose. The tears froze.
The pages of his life blood
lay scattered across the snow.
Like a sacrificial alter
the volumes were placed.
The temple now erected.
Each author a contributing artist.
The funeral pyre now complete.
The snow fell. The winds rose. The tears froze. The flames danced.
The fire scratched violently at the frosted air;
each enamelled finger reaching out in horror.
Ashes twirled, battling the soft white flakes;
angels and demons seeking one final act of sovereignty.
He glared through the flames, motioning to step forward.
He firmly gripped the stained hand, holding it ever nearer the
flame that writhed in its own tormented agony.
There was scream that emanated like a banshee, yet ended in the flames…
The snow fell. The winds rose. The tears froze. The flames danced. The end marked.
[By Jas Citrine (Jovial); Submitted May 24, 2014; Copyright 2014]
— The End —