Curiously Contemplative
The sun still sleeps as I climb the hill. Dark hallways are absent of even a whisper. Up and down, back and forth, over and over my body moves mimicking the relentless routine. My pride is in presentation, though it’s often unnoticed. My blue body blends with the background of busyness. Scouring the scene my ministry is my livelihood.
Who am I?
The light luminously glows through the windows. My silhouette stands situated between painted portraits pleasantly praying over me. I dream the dream of these sandstone bulwarks, though rarely while my lids lie in wait. I tend to tension to father a flock; praying and pronouncing with hope that the soil is receptive.
Who am I?
Why will worthiness never let my soul rest? Past yeses yank my heart into a menacing mess. Terrible temptation saturates my soul, though my pulse screams to not be led. Kneeling I know that the Source can still save. Still people pass by me as still I stay. Can confection ever come from a kind such as me?
Who am I?
Air accentuates the aura of my anima. My fingers unfetter the infinite silence. Sacramental sound soars through the incensed air. For many moons of my mortality I have noted the nexus of the notes and the immortal. Silently I serve with the echo of the ethereal.
Who am I?
Why does the cold consume the months where the sun seems incessantly asleep? Trifling tastes fill my buds that thirst for traditional treats. Wanting worship wavers from one waning motion to the next. Craving color and creativity, I long for the impetuous, ironic innovative and iconic. Home is a distant horizon hidden and hazy.
Who am I?
Soon you will not notice my presence parading this place. Blackness has branded me but wreathing white witness makes me recognizable. Parchment is past; voice is vanishing; flavors are forgotten; absence is anticipated; tears are trembling. Holding my heart, the hill hides beneath the horizon. Heaven hold me.
Who am I?
No comments:
Post a Comment