The world I want to live in,
It's that world
Where your childlike twinkle
Those fumes of pink ignorance behind what you'd call sweetness
Never have to leave

As we'd never have to fear
Men behind closed doors
Women behind them too
We'd never think of prisons

An alley where
Our parent holds our hand to pulls us away
Would be alien to us as the day we were born
And painfully born

A world in which
I'd never have had to learn to lie
Where my smile could be taken seriously
And my brother's eyes

Twinkled in all and out
Full of
Misunderstanding
For that thing we call deception

We'd tilt our heads
And smile
To the tears of stories long gone
We'd be the puzzles the past learnt to fix

In my world

it is all the same
the differences contrasted
by the space that separates
things in order to give them shape
its always been there
and always will be
how can distance be great?

I                                nights.
am                        cold   Snow
  born                  and         flakes
    In                 snow            fall
    the               of                   in
     winter      time                 shape        
      month   The                the  of snow  shaping
          January.             pure    white                gloves,
                           ­   white        stars,                     warm                      
                         colour.           shining                     and                                  
                      I am                    bright                      clothes        ­                        
                   born                          In                   Thick                        
                 In                                   the           light.                                
             Capricorn.                               street

I love the wind’s howling.
The breath of God surrounds me.
It’s angry and loud.

It says
Destroy yourselves!
and we do.

Well we do a bit,
but we’re so obsessed with living.
What the hell for?

******* parasites.

The shape itself
Captures this
poem well

Love is
Down
Below
The place
we all
once
fell

Action speaks louder than words,
so does confidence,
which speaks for itself as the right thing done at the right moment in time,
enhances the scope of how things will shape in future,
then also at the same point in time it changes the nature of everything in present, which has got do something with regards to future.

Definitely taking a proper line of action speaks for itself rather than stating it merely on a piece of paper or in the form of words.

The shape of Love is not a heart,
but that… of a solitary cross;
the burden of Christ’s sacrifice
was a desire to redeem the lost.

For Him, to reflect the Love of
The Father, is unimaginable to us;
such mercy and grace required God,
Who was embodied by Christ Jesus.

By the actions of one man, sin was
birthed into this world by Adam;
and now, through Christ, its affect
can be diminished, as we imagine

ourselves being made in the image
of God, according to His Holy Word.
Through the crucifixion of Christ,
the power of God in Him was stirred

to raise Christ from Humanity’s grave
in the sacrificial act of God’s Love;
therefore, we should mirror our Lord
daily, pulling down Heaven from above

by living with Grace, Mercy and Love.
.
.
.
Author notes:

Inspired by:
Eph 1:7; Isa 53; John 3:16

Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://amzn.to/1ffo9YZ

By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2016, All rights reserved.

.
                  It was the arc
                        of the rainbow
                              strewn above  
                                  thunder showered
                                     dawn;
                                         sun rays
                                           bending  
                                             into another
                                               resurrection
                                                 freshening hope
                                                   ..., or   
                                                      is it only
                                                        flecks
                                                          of colored light
                                                            curving
                                                         ­    in an arch
                                                            ­ your supple
                                                          ­  vestige
                                                            risi­ng to the sighs
                                                           of passionate touch ?
                                                           ..., perhaps just
                                                          leftover stardust,  * * *
                                                        spilled­ from                  *
                                         ­             someone else’s                      *
                                   ­                impassioned twilight ...                     *
                                                 becoming      ­                                         *
                                               nothing more
                                            than a hollow
                                          waning memory,
                                        a yearning ache,
                                    fading
                ­                like a  sunrise
                        daydream’s
                   afterglow


                                        wild is the wind © 2015
                                                ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩

my words take shape of verses while talking to you

it wasn’t
that he’d been
in a terrible
accident
but that
the image
I had of him
hadn’t

sight has a single trick

show me a food
can keep
itself
from being
eaten, one of these

is older
than the other (the hands)

the parents
of touch