I’d like to preface this prose with a statement of irregular device. Ive never been someone short on chocolatey endorsements; the feel good quips, compliments and words of encouragement. For as all good men know, kindness is the first step towards sacrifice. Even thoughts, proxy a gift and a blessing in the lives of those in need. And truly, in need or not, I think we all like to be included and independently lifted up. The difference is that real lovers don’t expect the reward or the reciprocal engagement. Giving sincerely is fulfilling enough.. we just pray its accepted.
Lord, thank you for your gifts. Their magnitude and audacity so great. Placed softly enough for us comprehend, and powerful enough to change a life, even in its smallest accord.
~
Like a painter, in his labyrinth of creative ebb
thunder falls like master strokes across an ebony canvas
Iridescent light masquerades in shades across gravity of independent being
intrepid coagulates of flavorful visibility fall like teardrops from over flowing leaflets
the maestro claps and scars the canvas with tempest like fury
serendipitous collisions of creative catastrophe shape the foundations
of a magnificent plodding, a gentle but deafening, humbling, distraction of brilliance
lacking no opaque que in gesture, its permanence and forthright mystique scalable across planes existing and... to exist, naturally governed by that mechanism so bold
a function performed without an heir to its existence, no gear to its shaft
driven by an invisible force, an incomprehensible divinity
the motions of the brush stain the canvas with imperial acuity
assigning permeable qualities to direct components
roses drip red, stems, green, glazed amidst morning dew
the foregone calamity imparted with a serenity that chills
an icy perfume haunts the re-animation of detached senses
dillusionally stumbling about as the creator inexorably likens
a curious judgement upon you, as if to say
wrathful am I who bears your being, unyielding is my compassion for your love
willful am I to spark your story, pining inside to shelter your joy
forever I bind your design, that you may waver through the trappings of life
an apology to epiphanize, be drawn to my aura, let your walls drive back
against the barriers of sadness, into the dawn of a justifiably contentious heart
not swollen with angst or misplaced understanding, but billowed with the pride
that comes from denying oneself, what nature understands as foolishness
but what revelation explains as salvation, rewards your calibration with celebration
Love with the will of the artist, kindly shrouded by grandeur
Love with the joyous regret that while impoverished your aches may make you
some other sits waiting, patiently idling in their own feeble but determined wallowing
and as the mosaic comes to a close, so too doth the path of the lover and the wallower
For the vision of the invisible hand is perfect and so now, too, are those finding favor in eyes and by the will of He who made them.
