Authors of Confusion

Into my childhood ears, wisdom poured

From the lips that held the most precious breath

The voice that carried a wisdom from then unto then, and even now

The tones of truths held dear, re-echo, resound

Reappear as that which cannot be long hidden.

Time reaps and returns like the grasp of the seas

That take and keep all things- until returned to the light.

The proof of what was, and that it has ever been,

Held in deeps and keep of the ages, but never gone.

God is not the author of confusion…

In the mysteries of eternities,

there is clarity in the mind of a child;

purity lies in the warm heart of truth

as age turns the young green leaves to gold.

Honesty is abundant like the sun

free to fill the eyes of all that welcome warmth,

and  so too is choice--

the voice within that quietly submits

to the noisy world.

As time molds and shapes us

Like trees agreed with wind and rain

To stand thus; we yet fulfill

The fruits of seasons. The sweetness

Of the inner place can fall from its natural place

Of inherent reflection, a fallen grace, buried

Beneath a worldly gold, and thus

Inscribed, a soul lost in the midst of life.

Tossed in chaos; the inner strife divided

The mansion of many rooms dissolves

Unfound, among rumors of crows in a defiant fog.

Defiant, even unto the burning thaw of dawn. Reborn

Are they now, disciples of the Lost, and chain bound followers,

Dedications of the  authors of confusion.