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Glorious

Words

Like a Pallet of Paint to Bedeck a barren canvas with depths otherwise unknown,

stand ready to unmask me.

Call I then upon their Potent Power

to Speak for me in tongues which I would otherwise be ignorant of

and let them spill out in Endless Fashion,

so that, by some means as I may be incapable of comprehending,

they tell the Secret Truth about my Heart of Hearts.

Listen, then, with an attentive ear so each word may Fulfill its Purpose.

Give over the haste of an accusing mind to the Power of these pawns,

Which now I use so incompetently to extricate myself.

 

There is a numbing silence

that parades around the inmost parts of me.

An acquiescence of spirit that, at times, threatens to undo me.

Murderous and suffocating in its heaviness of burden,

pain taunts my every fiber.

The shallowness of Love and it’s every Endeavor,

it’s every deception,

it’s every blaze of unbridled passion and confusions of ecstasy

spin my senses beyond my comprehension.

 

What is there, then, in this plan of existence we call reality

to give us any semblance of Meaning or Purpose?

How do we measure the challenge of continued breath

against the chaos of each beat of our Hearts?

There is an unquestionable merit to Patience, but I am yet to understand it.

Give me greed, hatred, or luckless ambition,

for in these tempestuous actions exists some concordance of logic,

but what of Love?

It does not give us any measure of profit,

it relinquishes no material gains;

yet we track it relentlessly.

It is belittling.

It is Empowering.

It is madness cast upon a writhing sea wherein there lies little Hope.

It is bitter, severing loneliness;

A place I run to where I might hide myself and from where I run to hide.

 

Still; I cannot hide.

Love is All I truly Long for, Hope for, Dream of.

It is the Apparition, the Mirage I witness all around and, yet, cannot Touch.

Each time I suppose myself to be attaining it,

Love vanishes into silvery nothingness,

only to reappear at the very limit of my perception.

Shall I, then, chase after it?

Or shall I sit down among the dry and dusty tumbleweeds

to wait out the drugery of yet another wearisome day?

 

Nay.

I Stand.

I Walk.

I Run.

Ever and Always, chasing the muse.

Endlessly desirous with Hope as Expectant within me as the Glorious Vision itself,

casting all my anticipation upon the one

Who is ever capable of combating all the ruthlessness of this bleak existence,

and in that Decisive Act of Irrevocable Trust,

I Behold the Potent Power of the Manifestation.

 

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~Morgan~

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Beautiful Photograph found on Pinterest