ironclad
wishes or dreams or every private notion hunting itself. over rustic valleys—I see
beauty—the landscape is a dreamscape. how have we monitored each other? too
many variables. we say it’s impossible, where a few know it works, in a space
deeply chaotic. through confusion to gain a little clarity. through clarity of
matter to sense disconnection—maybe deliberately. those dulcet eyes, such
casual investigation, most of us wait like someone at another’s mercy. the
house is the cathedral, the citadel is the home. to sit absorbed, the mind
moving, certainly going through a change. different ones have differing
elements, like different meals have distinct tastes. I see why people get upset;
all baggage aside, some things we know with clarity. the wonder is in the why
of another’s behavior. the church is not divorcee of the reality … the other
home, the house, the farmyard. many jokes and japes among friends and family.
the question is centered in the motive—was it the intention to frustrate
harmony, and replace it with unclarity? some gave life and limb for stealing a
bag of chips—this isn’t healthy. something messianic is taking place, something
also priestly, the deeper it goes—on a bad day—I ask myself, and I know, there
is no turning back, and rightly so! I have held the bible in public, confessed
with mouth and believed from heart, and still, some days are confusing, spiritually.
the trials don’t cease, they take sabbaticals at times, but they soon return.
the soul has strength and power and gumption. people are unaware, I am unaware,
of truth into the reality of the tabernacle. a curious person will ask, an
Israelite will be cautious, the mystery is rarely made public.
