To How We Met

Before I say what I want to say I just want to remind you of what has brought us to this moment.  I am speaking about a time, a place, an day and certain emotion that filled the room, injected to all those present by euphoria.      

Words sit idle on tongues as an introduction is yet to avail itself to this encounter, steps towards you brave the thoughts that lie dormant to the appeal that will be given to you.  As my subconscious phases out all those around you, the dimmed out figures grow less as I draw closer to you and the music calls out to the tempo of my feet to ground, my heart loud in its pound, in this Glory that my eyes and in hope, my heart has found.  As you become aware of my approach, your eyes dawn a light that that guides my flit across the room.  For the accession of your time not to be found wasted, a smile brightened countenance welcomes a belly deep “Hello.”   Standing there looking lost in a dream, everything is silent to your question of who and how I am to Usher in words that would only be said once, yet an eternity’s foundation would be laid on. (Breath) “ Who I am is still in construction, the designer in prayer, in you, I hope I trust I have found.  How I am is humbled that God does not taunt me with beauty because you to me and all of heavens angels are His best creation. And I dare not ask who and how you are, because the world would stand still in its orbit for me not to have seen the mother of my children and I drop dead in the inability to breath in my new air supply.     

 The night has turned into just a still moment in space, because in our conversation you wield the sewing pin that embroiders  the lifelong quotes that woman such as yourself bring into being. I had wished at that moment of enlightenment, I held your hand to plug you into a live feed to my heart.  Even then, my hopes would have been to synchronise my own heart with yours, because from that moment I saw you as my lifeline.  You had asked when are we leaving but I heard when are breeding, the thought of being joined with you intertwined to string out a vessel to draw us away from the restless urge of belonging.  Realigning the scripture spoken in us being grounded here for hours lost in the transcending emotion, we’re stronger in two.    

 My pride implodes with the enlightenment of being taken, so far a new me has been awakened, humility and acceptance is found.

I Enjoy Watching God Paint.

Earlier today, from a clear iris with clear watered paint He covered an eye with what we call tears narrowed on cheeks to help the feeling of grief and dispair.  At that very moment, He cleared a view to a chapter that saw a spirit risen embodied with a fabric which we all were made, the soil.

Imagine being humbled by a gentle breeze that summoned the afternoon, and without fail night Gleasons with the complements the moon pays to the hour at dusk.  It is only our pensive thought to resigning from the day that does not allow us the evidence of the Canvass. The Ray that pays attribute to the final contribution of the sun to the final hour,  pays homage to to the silver lining in clouds, a message sworn to be the slightest belief to things being better in this life. The contrast is vast but in a few minutes this vision is passed.

The spectrum is spread over the array of our perceptions, of how and when day ends and not over the beauty that simplicity presents. The light only gives way to night because there is a known resurrection in light and night is the only revelation to this truth. From how the day wears you thin, glues your eye shut and you know it as rest. Vivid images, life defining voyages beat increasing never ceasing hour. Turning and twisting on the laid on platform an almost guaranteed victory is granted, because of an ancient long promise of being a conqueror is brought forth, when that Vail brings in light in the morning.  Open your eyes to the opportunity presented in Morning. 

The textures of His paint brushes are seen to us as cultures and creeds, dimensions of origin, tones and Characters.  From the root we all once came, the Adam fruit is spread across 7 continents to complete the day that He rested, to watch only from a distance far beyond our matter. From there He blows winds and exclaims in the thunder we hear when He brews a better day, within, to be without to be alive in Him. The countenances enabled by our expressions, our tones that change through nature, yes including distances of origin closer to the earths belt and the structure we have.

The privilege that astronauts have to see the globe from where it was created, with one hand outstretched, spoken into existence…  Even after centuries it still continues in its molding. Drifting sheets over liquid foundation, this is our world and God paints everything we see.

Before my Vow

Standing solute in the concoction that love is considered to brew, to many that take the journey only a few find rest in the infinite conclusion that forever has its foundation claiming two hearts.  This is no dream, it is God’s weaving power and in you I have found my material that only He can sow.

The depths that my subconscious, who’s only preparing now, has found an unknown source that only faith can inspire, is found in a reflection clichéd by today’s generation.  Yes, I speak of looking into your eyes.  My every thought comes as your countenances , your neurological charges are found in my smile.  The pairing of words I find bestowed to our tongues has LOVE recreated by the Glory of my awakening in YOU.  I said it, I love you.

Ideas of when we wed seem farfetched when my mirror projects more of a riddle than it does a reflection, you.  In total contrast I would have never known about discovery if i stayed unbelieving that you mirror the virtue within.  The centre that gravity is found in, is the point of return when all emotion has flown all over like tempests flaring over seas calmed only by the turn of the atmospheric pressure. Your certainty draws me closer to sanity.

The wonder called paradise is a island that the honeymoon will offer for only just a tease, I dare note maroon any of my senses because forever is more than just a fiddle of chance.  Found closing my eyes, beneath my eyelids is an inscription to help harness my dreams, which well groomed they form my imaginings who take nothing less than being a reality.  Hearts as one’s proprietary rights are held by my vow, every night I see it.  The inscription reads: “I will honour you.”

Growing Up

In an observation of the possibility of being lost in the translation of adulthood as a young adult, I have discovered that the reception of peers could lead to my demise. We are served with ambiguous possibilities, the probability of which is not well aligned with our dreams or aspirations.

We spend time with people and spend time in circles we never imagined we would pay reference to, in jest information we're not conscious of at the time and out of cognition we assimilate thoughts that make us feel that we belong. My question though is my own worth in this. Our character, however, I have found is always the bit that makes us well suited or not in our reception and reaction to all of this. So then, what do we learn in our daily lives that allows us to grow? The falsified yet so, so true representation of depth and genuine facades are relations of our own emotion, in the theories that what we are we attract through the universe. This means that with my "friend" that is older, the assumption is made that maturity descends in conversation, or better yet the ascension of mental capability on my end in correspondence of the relation at hand.

We then spend time with our being, other known as self, cradled by conscience and subconscious and enlightenment embedded in thoughts comes about. We realign perceptions and views we best know how and we nurture our own growth with reference from external factors, that are somewhat a pivotal contribution to our conclusion as choice. In all of us resides a favor that is not tangible, formidable in its presence, audible in its mark, irrefutable in its Glory.

I cannot deny this, I cannot run from this growing up, is what it is.

My 67th Minute Thought

At the 67^th min I thought...

We often forget the fundamentals of the co-ordination of life, yes, life in its fullest potential.  Our joys are found in a vast and diverse digestions of circumstances, trials and opportunities.  One that has been given prominence to in the week that we are in, is the power of giving.  Whether it is giving to, or giving back.

We have been given a name to do it in but, I will implore you, I wish to appeal to the senses that come innate to our being and found wanting to our conditioning, which we, in our generation have fallen into.  Before we all give in the 67 min, we should ask ourselves what mercy and what grace we find ourselves in, sitting at our desks with means to eat and with means of shelter.  The hand of fate could have dealt a different hand to us but it is possible that it was a fourth father prayer that we have substance today.  The appeal, in no way, means to play fiddle to your emotions or manipulate your senses thereof to do something on this day or with this time but it is merely a question...  Do you or don’t you.

 I am convinced that we all spawn from a God seed, one that is never ending and never drying.  We spawn from a universal power that the greatest of men have paid account to and yet still never understood.  We hail as descendants of  a mightier will, than that which brings the sun out in the morning and  keeps the days in their course.  It is because of this that I too think, that this time, for this day, at that hour, is given as a derivative of one man’s fight to liberate and to instil virtue into barren minds... What I want you to see is that it has been and is in all of us. In some it is greatly accentuated, because of a Blessing that s bestowed on them by that Great Power.

I believe that a greater good was done when the weaving of this day took 27 years to be realized, an even greater one for generations to come to be emphasized. I believe the word legacy should have been threaded or rather changed to Nelson Mandela

Dear Pen and Paper

It feels like eons since the last that you and I shared stories about our imaginings, and them that have made us kings.   The last that I relished your presence was hours before this very moment, but the last confiding encounter has been found wanted as my fingers clinch to the ebb of impulses of rushing streams from my hand to my mind.

The seductive forces spawned by your combination, at times, bring tears to my eyes or better yet, a glimmer in my soft grin in a flitting scan of your message path today.  The narrow and sometimes wide spread lines paralleled, you commanded for direction and composition, brave and noble paper, pay good and accepted ransom, by the blue, black and occasional red pool of glazed material ejected by the sprout of the mighty funnel, the pen.  It is called this by many but clutched in the hands of some, it possesses far beyond the value and weight of a king’s command, a far valued material fashioned in flames. It is mightier than the sword and it is seen in the articulation of speech and the construction in a well written script.

I have seen how brave you have made speakers, heads of places and even how Presidents are in delivery.  How tall they stand behind a podium or alter, and there on its setting you rest silently charged and reflecting what words their lips will discharge from you what was once oblivious in their seeking minds.  A catalyst that catapults a nation’s address is what you are and never, I believe, do you Pen and Paper want anything in acknowledgment, if luck has it you are recycled into your aberration.

There is a great deal that authors, poets and scribes owe you, or rather, the readers of the text, rich in its virtue, that you pen and paper have culminated over years in these writers minds.  A generation has been altered just by the very voice that you gave the speakers that quote your very protrusion in papers and pages in books dear pen.  This is only seen in the history books that publications have found so dear and so profound to let Today know about.

There are arts that are more inclined to sound too, but have paid reference to your subconscious being in being an art in your own existence.  The fusion of thought and abled limbs, tarsals and phalanges have allowed the quill and the parker to impregnate the harvested and reformed tree, be paper, to give virtue to those that sourced it out in search of expression.  Body soul and mind have been made whole in your greatest publication, the Bible and yet still your work is still found needed in the technological age we are found in.

Oh dear Pen and Paper, am I that privileged that I may set my visions on your never ending path, a fortress to them that cannot find any virtue in beings and a documenting platform?  Whatever it is that you do, I pray that the God of the Heavens sees me worthy to be a source of your manifestation.

Cradle my thoughts

Dear God, cradle the thoughts that I am having on this night. My questions are many, even the answers to them that came initially are questions themselves, my solutions are riddles that lead me into an even greater sense of soliloquy.

A gentle word, right now, in the murmur of gentle breeze would do my hearts rest justice, because in it, would be the silent calm that my mind needs. I am far from that right now. My silent prayer comes with raised hands but I would rather have my feed of the ground for the supernatural power of hovering over this hard time that wants my progress weary of success. Cradle my thoughts so I can dream so that this body that you use for your powers display to get rest. That is what you made night for, because if it was, the sun would never show submission to the darkness that causes confusion. I implore your mercy to just look my direction to remind me now more than ever, that you are alive in me and I in this world for you, cradle my thoughts that I may sleep.

In this very mind, God, you and I toil with my ambitions, looking for means that will exemplify growth and a destination set.  Our conversations are persistent prayers that inspire even the smallest of molecules that construct the very fibre of my being. To live and live more is what the subconscious pleads and gently caresses my conscious self with, but that is not an indirect means to keep me awake or in constant torment of what has not come to pass, what success has not come, Father please, cradle my thoughts that I may comfort those who's day like this is still to come. 

Dear God, the Vision you've set can only be altered by faith and belief, I do that with gentle vigour in proof of my fighting heat. Cradle these thoughts for I am yours to use.