Potential Energy

In the space between ‘do’ and ‘done’ lay a realm of daft potential.

Where endless possibilities compete with what’s inevitable.

Where infinity meets it’s end.

Beyond the boundaries of perception.

Where we condense space and time.

Into the here and now.

Exchanging fear, for love.

(Not a feeling. But a place.)

Where we step into newness with revived anticipation.

Knowing that our lives are fixed firmly in the faith filled hands of God.

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So far, I fear,

The tender state of our present predicament

Will render misplaced directives

As undue objectives.

Directly responsible for lost time, I

Remove the plastic wrapping from my vantage point.

Revealing the messiness of faux morality.

Steeped in an incomplete philosophy of what life is to be.

To be,

Regal in appearance is no justification.

For when we meet our Maker, our makeup won’t do.

My prayer?

That our true selves remain resolved, outside our

Ability to play pretend.

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The Beginning

In the beginning

There was the Word.

The Logos.

The penultimate building block of

Eternal existence.

Fomenting from the lips of God.

A truth inspired.

A faith required.

A death retired.

The never tired,

Unexpired,

Matchless breath of Elohim.

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Lost Rem-ories

The distance between synapses and

Enactments rack up lost sleeps, deep in land of the ethereal.

Where the random empty moments

Of restoration engender mass delusions.

Rendering reckless entertainment as momentary bliss

Dismissing lethargy of its capacity to negotiate.

The slumber once enjoyed devolves into

Rapid eyes moving under fastened eyelids.

And yet –

To awake.

Is to recognise.

That the dream, is the reality.

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Psalm 23

The Good Shepherd

doth lead His sheep, toward

silent streams juxtaposed boundless prairie.

Though, in the valley of despair –

There resides the

littlest lie.

Remember not the lessons of death & dis ease.

Rather, render your remembrance

To the path before you.

(evil is not to be feared)

To take comfort in Reality,

Is to remain fixated on The Architect.

Whose home has many rooms, and plenty space for you.

To live.

Forever.

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Imposter Syndrome

I often feel as if

It’s only a matter of

Time

Before I’m found out

As fraudulent.

Like these lines

Leak lies that vaguely resemble

Love.

But who am I?

To lay claim on what’s

Divine?

As if half hearted words

Assorted as putrid poetry could

Ever

Truly capture the essence

Of what it means to be

Alive.

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Universe City

There’s a subsistence to

Existence

A Reality

That underpins our daft pursuits

Our potential. Potentially.

(Or particularly.)

Tethered to an expansive experiment.

A symphonic unraveling of Truth.

We call it, the universe.

As in, one song.

One.. two, three, four.

One.

The downbeat of eternity exploded forth as

The Maestro, masterful in intention

Recieved us back into

Oneness.

And then, we remember.

It was Love all along.

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Prayer

Not sure of where You’re leading me.

Not sure of what’s in store.

Can’t see the plans You have quite yet,

Just know there must be more.

Than lowly unrequited love

That some take on for granted.

I pray, O God, you’d move my heart

Uproot the fear that’s planted.

Remind me of Your saving grace,

To trust that I am free.

Reveal inside the pride that binds

And sow humility.

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If Eye Were A Poet

I would recognize the fragility of my

Perception.

Terrifying.

To real eyes regurgitation is the norm.

As fate filled fears of yesteryear percolate near surface wounds

(To remind me of my irrelevance)

Words curl around my mental like bits of plaigerized patriarchy pandering to pedantic people more impressed by platitudes than by

Truth.

If I were a poet;

I would parse through the lameness of sameness to finally find something – original.

But I’m not.

At least, not yet.

And so.

You’re left with diluted ideas posing as words waiting for a home

In minds more attuned to the frequency of

Love.

Reforming rogue lines into stanzas that breathe life everlasting.

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Summer Solstice

I sat outside today

To let my toes touch every blade of uncut grass.

Then I watched the sun set.

To mourn the beginning of the end.

But also, in a sense –

To celebrate the end of old beginnings.

It’s all going according to plan.

Isn’t it?

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