After excellence comes redemption. A fiat! After terrors come change. A dictum!
Miles between personas. Years between growth spurts.
All I know is I don’t know.
If redeemed, it’s not done;
fierceness in soul, treading steps and cobblestones, living akin to apostles. Framed
in expectations, dreaming as sand falls, digging into quicksand, fretting
musicality and art—as pure expressions. The reason it never works, becomes the
ingredient we created; feelings floating furiously, song made sullen, anxiety
making anchors, and church made chaotic. Paris eyes, African hips, Australian-Italian
lips, and Spirit was draped in Ghosts. So close to callous, fraught by emotion,
hampered and sunk low; so close to ecstatic, dwelling in suffering, the only
joy captured in souls; to focus on essence, abounding in uneasiness, flushed by
notions of Passion; soul and sold, affected and afflux, favored and conquered;
to have gifts, to praise in body, surety of resurrection, vulnerability as
Light. Bright brilliant spirits. Deeper dangerous humility. And warring becomes
God’s ways.
