I Write Poetry
I scream to deaf eyes; few hear my glow.
The Master brings life to the void. Colors sing out the melody while textures bring harmony.
Music is carried on the wind, for this gift, this honest endowment, must be touched by the sun to yield fruit. Its truth caresses the soul with inspiration; the counterfeit drives it to madness.
Love. Wisdom. Mercy to balance justice. These direct the conversations of the lyrical. Their words attend to the cries of the suffering, and the pilgrim gains from their virtue.
The earth, the very ground we walk upon, yearns to pulse and hum in concert. That chorus, once a masterpiece of glory, now interrupted by tortured shrieks and convulsions.
We've lost the score! The "greatest of these" is all but forgotten.
Ignorance. Impatience. Laziness. The human race emits a cacophony of static, casting panic and blame, taking what isn't given. It churns, grinds, crushes the soul, ignoring the wails of all in its path.
I do not wish to add to the noise. May our voice be tactile, our gaze a whisper.
The Master brings life to the void. Colors sing out the melody while textures bring harmony.
Music is carried on the wind, for this gift, this honest endowment, must be touched by the sun to yield fruit. Its truth caresses the soul with inspiration; the counterfeit drives it to madness.
Love. Wisdom. Mercy to balance justice. These direct the conversations of the lyrical. Their words attend to the cries of the suffering, and the pilgrim gains from their virtue.
The earth, the very ground we walk upon, yearns to pulse and hum in concert. That chorus, once a masterpiece of glory, now interrupted by tortured shrieks and convulsions.
We've lost the score! The "greatest of these" is all but forgotten.
Ignorance. Impatience. Laziness. The human race emits a cacophony of static, casting panic and blame, taking what isn't given. It churns, grinds, crushes the soul, ignoring the wails of all in its path.
I do not wish to add to the noise. May our voice be tactile, our gaze a whisper.
41-45, M
