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.
