The Art of Writing
The planets of our conscience,
carved and creviced with silver years,
revolving ’round the deed of our suns
with creaking restraint of the air pump;
moons of our descant want
enticing us from our beds,
to gaze upon the light of night.
Yet we tend toward resolution
of our wrongs. The silence of waiting,
the brokenness of wings that can no longer fly.
We wait for restoration, as the morn.
What breath peeled dewy morning from sunrise,
shadowing lilies of the ancient path,
neat gardens specked in red and white expanse,
skirts of dancers twirling on the smooth lawn,
flawless bright comment of the early sun,
the wind of heaven lent its full perfume,
when I heard the following of birds
descending from steeple mount, larks, sparrows,
seeking the reflection of the green’s eyes,
darting over all that is paradise—
resplendent as honor from the lost sons.
Read more: see links to other blogs with poetry
What are prophets but the trumpets blown by God to stir the heart?
WILLIAM ROSS WALLACE
What wonders of love, breaking on the spiels of time. How it came to be that I was the architect of the human race, a strong and stately woman of virtue, was a story of its own. For when the deep rang out, I answered my doorbell.