Burden seems a weight upon the chest.
A pressing that impedes the muffled pulse.
Will to continue becomes a breath expelled and lost.
Motive waxes and wains no less frequent than the pendulum's swing.
Spirit dulls. Lungs shallow.
The mind sears with use. Pressure inevitably detours to the head.
Arms and legs turn to gutters pooling blood apart from the load.
Hands grow numb and weak and loose their grasp on the soul.
One's eyes dim and focus skews.
Response dulled. Motion stilled.
And silence fills the room.
Friday, May 1, 2009
Thursday, April 9, 2009
How the Heart is Made Whole
Who could have known the heart is healed in seeking to save the soul?
That entirety lies in inquiry of one's eternity.
That peace comes in parting with forbidden pleasures.
For when the Father forgives all fallacy,
Serenity shines in the mind of the servant
Because mercy masks all mares.
Kindness is kindled,
Life becomes an inlet for love,
And the Lord lends leaven to our work.
That the world need not wonder,
But be blessed in abundance by the Word
Which He has written.
Let us then, bear witness to the workings
Of the Lord within our lives
And so lead listeners onward to life not bound within earthly limitation,
But illuminated by the Light that leaves none lacking.
The truth to triumph is not through terrestrial pursuits,
But only in practice of the principles found within those precious pages can
The pierced heart be healed and the soul finds its' long-sought salvation.
That entirety lies in inquiry of one's eternity.
That peace comes in parting with forbidden pleasures.
For when the Father forgives all fallacy,
Serenity shines in the mind of the servant
Because mercy masks all mares.
Kindness is kindled,
Life becomes an inlet for love,
And the Lord lends leaven to our work.
That the world need not wonder,
But be blessed in abundance by the Word
Which He has written.
Let us then, bear witness to the workings
Of the Lord within our lives
And so lead listeners onward to life not bound within earthly limitation,
But illuminated by the Light that leaves none lacking.
The truth to triumph is not through terrestrial pursuits,
But only in practice of the principles found within those precious pages can
The pierced heart be healed and the soul finds its' long-sought salvation.
Chaos Within The Heart
What are we?
Rather, why are we?
Madness and genius are not conditions of the mind
But rather substances produced in the marrow and circulated throughout the body.
And the body is nothing but a prison to the soul if it is without mind.
Curious, it seems, the deterioration and blossoming of the intellect appears so very similar to onlookers.
Bystanders in an acrobatic collision.
Tears shed, caught, and passed along hand-to-hand like pearls.
Strung up to be worn as an ornament about the throat.
Pain turned to beauty. Like a butterfly pinned to a cork board.
Here. I saw you were beautiful, so I killed these flowers in your name.
Beauty for beauty. An acceptable sacrifice.
Time bends and loops contorting to facilitate our insignificant existence.
Not a theme park attraction, but waves breaking on the sand.
Granules stirred in submersion results in a salty snow globe.
This is the chaos within the heart. Sediment pulled, pushed, tossed, and thrown.
Swirled about. Memories. Photographs. Images summoned by recollection.
Flashes indicative of a mood or sentiment. Portions of that which was set to music.
This life will play upon the screen of eternity though all and none will see.
A screen strung up by the giver of life. Of souls. Of the heart.
Mine is torn, and thus I await my seamstress.
What have I to repay you with?
Here. Flowers.
Beauty for Beauty.
Rather, why are we?
Madness and genius are not conditions of the mind
But rather substances produced in the marrow and circulated throughout the body.
And the body is nothing but a prison to the soul if it is without mind.
Curious, it seems, the deterioration and blossoming of the intellect appears so very similar to onlookers.
Bystanders in an acrobatic collision.
Tears shed, caught, and passed along hand-to-hand like pearls.
Strung up to be worn as an ornament about the throat.
Pain turned to beauty. Like a butterfly pinned to a cork board.
Here. I saw you were beautiful, so I killed these flowers in your name.
Beauty for beauty. An acceptable sacrifice.
Time bends and loops contorting to facilitate our insignificant existence.
Not a theme park attraction, but waves breaking on the sand.
Granules stirred in submersion results in a salty snow globe.
This is the chaos within the heart. Sediment pulled, pushed, tossed, and thrown.
Swirled about. Memories. Photographs. Images summoned by recollection.
Flashes indicative of a mood or sentiment. Portions of that which was set to music.
This life will play upon the screen of eternity though all and none will see.
A screen strung up by the giver of life. Of souls. Of the heart.
Mine is torn, and thus I await my seamstress.
What have I to repay you with?
Here. Flowers.
Beauty for Beauty.
The Warrior
Not a knight, nor a noble.
Never could he be called a king.
But he was a man of God,
And that was more than enough.
A knight would fight for his nobleman.
To protect the title of his Lord.
And the nobleman would go to war for his king.
To ensure his portion of the kingdom remain his own.
The king would choose his adversary with gain in mind.
But as for the man of God,
He would battle for a far greater commodity.
Neither gold, land, or resource of any sort
Could scarcely compare to the worth of the soul.
His loyalty lies with the Lord of lords
And his labors align accordingly.
But his brand of battle boasted a far higher worth.
For he was only a single soldier of a holy army.
An army which every advancement was aided by angels' wings.
An army not just of men.
Not bound by gender or age.
Not limited by race.
Not cheapened by place of earthly origin.
His life would be spent in combat.
Not a moment of reprieve could be granted.
Not an instant off guard.
Too much lie at stake.
He forged his own armor in the way he had read.
His sword was bound with a leather spine
And filled with tattered pages.
He would wield it wisely knowing well his weapon's worth.
It could pierce even the hardest heart
And bring nations to their knees
So that all may bow before the King.
Never could he be called a king.
But he was a man of God,
And that was more than enough.
A knight would fight for his nobleman.
To protect the title of his Lord.
And the nobleman would go to war for his king.
To ensure his portion of the kingdom remain his own.
The king would choose his adversary with gain in mind.
But as for the man of God,
He would battle for a far greater commodity.
Neither gold, land, or resource of any sort
Could scarcely compare to the worth of the soul.
His loyalty lies with the Lord of lords
And his labors align accordingly.
But his brand of battle boasted a far higher worth.
For he was only a single soldier of a holy army.
An army which every advancement was aided by angels' wings.
An army not just of men.
Not bound by gender or age.
Not limited by race.
Not cheapened by place of earthly origin.
His life would be spent in combat.
Not a moment of reprieve could be granted.
Not an instant off guard.
Too much lie at stake.
He forged his own armor in the way he had read.
His sword was bound with a leather spine
And filled with tattered pages.
He would wield it wisely knowing well his weapon's worth.
It could pierce even the hardest heart
And bring nations to their knees
So that all may bow before the King.
The Paradox of Human Wisdom
"The wise man does not think himself wise."
I do not know who first said this,
But he must have been wise and saw himself a fool.
For if the wise man thinks himself wise,
Then he is a fool.
However, the inverse is pure truth as well.
The fool does not think himself foolish.
And if the foolish man thinks himself foolish,
Then he is wise, for he sees the truth.
But how can this be?
The fool cannot be wise and the wise be foolish.
Then if the wise are not so and the fools know wisdom,
Then who can claim either side?
Because if the wise man sees himself as wise,
Then he never was wise to begin with and he is a fool.
Likewise, if the fool sees himself as wise,
Then he is still a fool and did not gain wisdom.
To distinguish further, only the wise know that no man is wise,
But all are as fools.
So now I ask which are you?
Wise or foolish?
Because however you answer,
You are wrong. :)
I do not know who first said this,
But he must have been wise and saw himself a fool.
For if the wise man thinks himself wise,
Then he is a fool.
However, the inverse is pure truth as well.
The fool does not think himself foolish.
And if the foolish man thinks himself foolish,
Then he is wise, for he sees the truth.
But how can this be?
The fool cannot be wise and the wise be foolish.
Then if the wise are not so and the fools know wisdom,
Then who can claim either side?
Because if the wise man sees himself as wise,
Then he never was wise to begin with and he is a fool.
Likewise, if the fool sees himself as wise,
Then he is still a fool and did not gain wisdom.
To distinguish further, only the wise know that no man is wise,
But all are as fools.
So now I ask which are you?
Wise or foolish?
Because however you answer,
You are wrong. :)
Life
Life. Such an irreverated term.
What does it mean to experience life? To live?
To know you are alive.
Is it just existence, or is it something more?
More than being aware.
But, rather, understanding.
More than concern.
But caring.
And not just caring.
But love!
From the moment our eyes brighten in birth,
Till they draw dim in death,
We are surrounded by those we love
And those in whom the sentiment is found to be mutual.
These same people will stand by us through this so-called life
And share the moments that define what it means to live.
They give the photo meaning. Worth.
So that it is not just a piece of paper or an image on a screen.
It is not just a moment frozen.
But a memory stored and cherished.
A story remembered and retold.
People who knew each other.
Held hands and shared a laugh.
Looked to the sky and smiled at God.
And thanked Him for this blessing in company.
Life has purpose.
To make obstacles yield.
To tame tribulations.
To still the waters.
To strive for perfection of spirit.
To search the world for yourself.
May you obtain the the impossible.
Run your fingers through a cloud.
May you love without reserve.
See the Lord in the face of another.
May you leave behind a legacy.
Bring a new life into this world.
Sing it a lullaby.
Rock it to sleep.
Kiss it goodnight.
And may you never forget what it means to live.
What does it mean to experience life? To live?
To know you are alive.
Is it just existence, or is it something more?
More than being aware.
But, rather, understanding.
More than concern.
But caring.
And not just caring.
But love!
From the moment our eyes brighten in birth,
Till they draw dim in death,
We are surrounded by those we love
And those in whom the sentiment is found to be mutual.
These same people will stand by us through this so-called life
And share the moments that define what it means to live.
They give the photo meaning. Worth.
So that it is not just a piece of paper or an image on a screen.
It is not just a moment frozen.
But a memory stored and cherished.
A story remembered and retold.
People who knew each other.
Held hands and shared a laugh.
Looked to the sky and smiled at God.
And thanked Him for this blessing in company.
Life has purpose.
To make obstacles yield.
To tame tribulations.
To still the waters.
To strive for perfection of spirit.
To search the world for yourself.
May you obtain the the impossible.
Run your fingers through a cloud.
May you love without reserve.
See the Lord in the face of another.
May you leave behind a legacy.
Bring a new life into this world.
Sing it a lullaby.
Rock it to sleep.
Kiss it goodnight.
And may you never forget what it means to live.
One Day, Not Yet
One day, when I have passed on,
Do not mourn my absence.
Do not shed a tear for my sake,
But if you must, let it be one of joy,
And not of sorrow.
We are apart only for the now.
I am not lost, but free.
Finally free.
Free to go Home.
Free to reunite with the
Saints gone on before.
Free to abide with the Good Lord
For now and forever.
Do not eulogize me wearing dim garments,
But wear white to celebrate my ascension.
Reminisce, if you must, of our shared past,
But do not forget to anticipate our future.
And If the Good Lord is willing,
I will wait for you on the other side of those famed gates.
I will wait for the day when you too ascend.
Then I will be among those who welcome you Home.
Beautiful, isn't it, this place of light?
We will sing with the angles hymns we never knew till now.
We will praise the Almighty.
The Creator. The Sustainer. The Giver of Life.
Our Lord.
Our Father.
Our Friend.
Do not shed a single tear for me.
For I am Home.
I am Home.
Do not mourn my absence.
Do not shed a tear for my sake,
But if you must, let it be one of joy,
And not of sorrow.
We are apart only for the now.
I am not lost, but free.
Finally free.
Free to go Home.
Free to reunite with the
Saints gone on before.
Free to abide with the Good Lord
For now and forever.
Do not eulogize me wearing dim garments,
But wear white to celebrate my ascension.
Reminisce, if you must, of our shared past,
But do not forget to anticipate our future.
And If the Good Lord is willing,
I will wait for you on the other side of those famed gates.
I will wait for the day when you too ascend.
Then I will be among those who welcome you Home.
Beautiful, isn't it, this place of light?
We will sing with the angles hymns we never knew till now.
We will praise the Almighty.
The Creator. The Sustainer. The Giver of Life.
Our Lord.
Our Father.
Our Friend.
Do not shed a single tear for me.
For I am Home.
I am Home.
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