Prayer

162.

I am angry

At the sun that sets while my fury is blazing

 

I am angry

At the planet that keeps spinning when there is a great evil invading

 

Monsters of the mind

There is a nail bomb set in a building

A rampant scattering piercing young innocent flesh

Crucified for the pleasure of the wicked

 

Monsters of the mind

There is a plane forced into a destination of none

Set flying to perpetuate a grieving of the land dwelling

An aircraft veiled as the mystery of Atlantis

 

If my words could take physical form

They are flaming arrows breaking into the lair of the corrupted

Purifying what shed blood cannot

 

If my words could take physical form

They are lit lanterns floating in the vengeful sky and crying streams

A cause to hope and love for those left behind

 

People are uncomfortable

To speak of race, gender, sexuality and religion

Associations that seem to divide humanity

 

People are uncomfortable

To understand the difference between equality and equity

To surrender a power held tightly to the chest

 

This is why I write

Be it a leaky pen or a furious typing

So that my words will teach the head how to dream and form a better tomorrow

 

This is why I write

Despite my clumsy stuttering and uncontrollable sobbing

So that one day there will be no more wars and cruel greed to turn family upon family.

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157.

How are you feeling?

 

How

 

do you find yourself just the way you are, that you sit there with arms folded across a length comparable to the horizon

 

Are

 

you alright in the things you do, where you laugh and smile at the people around you, do you find yourself reaching

 

You

 

are a treasure but do you know that? Could you very well be a treasure hidden from yourself

 

Feeling

 

down and small, like you’re never quite anything at all, but you, my dear friend, is someone I would try for everyday to grow and love more, that you are someone I will continue to care for

 

Don’t you know…?

 

Your smile makes the flowers grow.

154.

I remember being told that I’ll have a gift from that day onward, but know not what it’ll contain for years more.

Can it be folded? Is it fragile, does it come in pairs? Can it be seen or is it like the warmth you feel by a fireplace. Is it heavy, will it find strength to float in the throes of desperation? If I try to unpick it, will I find it empty.

How am I to decipher this item? Two years ago I thought of it to be mercy, but it would seem that 2018 tells me otherwise.

Let’s count in reverse, from ten to zero.

Know that this gift, be it revealed or not, should be used for His glory.

148.

Little people have lives larger than their bodies can contain.

That warm glow, a space not many can hold for long. A smile that varies, expression evident at every turn of the clock.

Small is powerful, they claim, and I say it’s true still. Just a tiny fist having it raised commands much attention. This one curled by the bedside is a sight sweeter than one can expect in the dark of night. When reasoned with, tears will move even the stoniest of hearts.

Little people with a touch of magic, I hope you grow up knowing there’s more than games to play all day long. Be it pain or joy, each moment will carve the shadows sewed to the bottom of feet at eventide. This be the unspoken question feared: will the hand holding the older’s fade away, or clutch tighter?

We already know: energy bundled within is never destroyed or lost, but merely transformed. And so, where will your spark go forth in this vast world?

Yet hush now, despite these musings it’s time to sleep, wide-eyed child.

Let tomorrow slip in while you lay in bed.

140.

El Roi; the God who sees me.

Here when breath finds itself lost in a crowd, when feet melt into water and fall sideways. Watching these hands fail to grip the balloons of dreams and have them popping in the intensified air. This yarn of thought scrambled, disconsolate, eventually frayed. Crease all the papers into attempted perfect folds, run the life that never is.

Six feet under in the space I’m supposed to call home.

Flower on the wall, grown strange and peculiar. Remember to stand tall, raise the hand of one’s heart, even when it quivers interminably. Speak in words that don’t exist, for more so is none important. The dark and the shadows find shape in gentle light. The hand outstretched that never intrudes the bubble.

I know just the special little something for you, He whispers lovingly.

Look up and know.

El Roi; the God who sees me.

133.

My favourite memory might not even exist in your head.

A smile small and nearly impudent, the peculiar pinch of eyes while thinking deeply.

Slow gentle clap of hands when things go well.

Tremor of the ground turning into courageous steps.

This yell, childlike brimming delight, when it comes to the matters you care best.

I wonder, I truly wonder if we can ever know all of ourselves, if we are fragmented stardust particles gleaming in lives other than our own.

So maybe I am your mirror just as you are mine.

And oh, how I desire that you will continue to shine a brilliant bright.

127.

If memory is flexible, this is what it should remember:

 

The cold frigid air of midnight

Lightning broken and thundering drum

Cosy steamboat and unrestrained laughs

Shot in the dark, silver tail of the sky.

 

Not only these, but

 

Conversations leading to undiscovered roads

Upturned shoes of sleepiness

Eternal rounds of strawberries

Strangers then, now siblings in Christ.

 

Dear memory, please don’t become undone.