Think that
Jesus
Was born dead
Would God
Take Mary
Back to bed?
Gratitude knots in my throat.
I am surrounded by the bounty of her sacrifices, yet I let it slip through my fingers.
My heart aches with the weight of her expectations, each one a burden I fail to shoulder.
I am the idle child in the garden of plenty, the squanderer of every gift bestowed upon me.
Is brevity not the soul of wit
So why then dilute the words which we spit
Is it perchance some performative urge
Some selfish ambition to a little longer be heard
What cause do we have to slight our creations
If not entitlement to our meaningless station
Am I not but a jester who wears a tin crown
Yet speaks of it as gold with the hope that my mouth is not bound
sometimes the happy ending is the ending itself
Continue reading
The power of thought is like a flame,
Burning bright within our brain,
It starts with a seed in the mind's eye,
And grows into a vision that can touch the sky.
Thoughts shapes our world and guides our way,
Through every moment, every day,
For what we think, we bring to life,
With every thought, we change our strife.
......
They say he never sleeps,
Eyes wide, a steady gaze,
Not from the buzz of late-night thoughts,
But from the quiet pace of days.
Yet something lingers in his stillness,
A shadow wrapped in light,
A flicker of a restless mind,
Too quiet in the night.
......
Ein Raum wird leer,
kein Laut,kein Schatten,
nur Staub in der Luft,
vom Licht getragen.
Die Schritte verhallen,
zurück bleibt nichts,
nur die Erinnerung,
verblasst wie Nebel im Morgen.
......
Gratitude knots in my throat.
I am surrounded by the bounty of her sacrifices, yet I let it slip through my fingers.
My heart aches with the weight of her expectations, each one a burden I fail to shoulder.
I am the idle child in the garden of plenty, the squanderer of every gift bestowed upon me.
sometimes the happy ending is the ending itself
Continue reading
Is brevity not the soul of wit
So why then dilute the words which we spit
Is it perchance some performative urge
Some selfish ambition to a little longer be heard
What cause do we have to slight our creations
If not entitlement to our meaningless station
Am I not but a jester who wears a tin crown
Yet speaks of it as gold with the hope that my mouth is not bound