I never know when the flint will strike or if it will catch ablaze to any height above my own musing. But what of the flame? Is it not the heart crying for a bright glimpse in the unfolding of beauty? So many prayers poured out to see this tear in the drape of monotony and lukewarm affection for my existence and all that surrounds it. I find my hands often folded in a reverence for that which I cannot touch. I feel a lump directly under my throat which has no surgical repair. It only asks for my silence with eyes of light. I felt it, for the pronoun is my best , most staring in the deep of the ocean in the Orient. A man faced with the abyss of his deeds, a chasm of his weak constitution with no bearing, a canyon seemingly too far to be bridged with attenuated hope.
If this world screams of beauty and a life continued in a better allegiance to the cosmic constant, I have ran with my ears plugged by my own fingers retreating back to the slough. Awake man! Go and find the path he spoke of and place your print alongside his bold boot. Climb the mast, boy, and scream to the heavens you are clean. Tread the peaks and write a sonnet full of worship. Sleep in perse pastures of poesy and bathe in prime pools of promise. Hug closer, cry harder with disregard, and laugh until death seems a happy friend that will only pass in a short sigh. Show a stranger your bandaged heart in hopes that they might apply another adhesive to keep the overflowing of life intact. Kiss your mother as the daughter of Mother Mary and be willing to hold the staff of your father. Tell everyone you can barely breathe because it is so abundantly available in sweet doses.
So may I walk streets awake of You. May I find a shadow of your appearance in a child's innocence. Help me hear the cicada's song of adoration and feel the embrace of warm sun. Still my tongue and quicken the good work you have faithfully started.