The deeper the darkness, the deeper the awareness of grace.
From where has God brought you?
A writer, I often prefer stepping away from safely bubbled literature into something rawer, more tragic and real. Drawn to the psychological divergence of the night season, it's not quite the night season of temporary circumstances - but the powerful light near the end that beckons. Light appears brighter as you step from the shadows. Grasp that light tightly with newfound gratitude...I do every time.
There is a sacred purpose for everything, even literature bordering a darker side. Sometimes bad things happen to good people. What then? Within this framework, one can hear HIS voice distinctly calling, “Child, come home,” whispering, “child, be healed,” shouting, “Child, I forgive you.” This is the way, walk ye in it…
From where has God brought you?
The deeper the darkness, the deeper the awareness of Grace.
Dark Horse emerges from my dream. Mysterious, bewitching, revealing little while comprising much. I want to behold your countenance in real-time and not just imagine the cadence of your gait.
Weave my fingers through your mane. Look long into your ambiguous eyes that reflect secrets of ageless awareness. Wrap my arms around you as I rest along your back. Sync my breath with your breath and we breathe as one.
Dark Horse, won’t you emerge from my dream. Grace me with the reality of your existence, pure and unmistakable. Allow me to come close. Consent to the intimate rhythm of our being.
It’s said that poetry, a literary art, can evoke great emotion. It has the power to encourage and enlighten. To draw one into another’s plight or perhaps discover a shared experience, providing a deeper touch of humanity. The Psalms is one of the greatest collections of literary art—poetry, songs, and prayer—all an expression extending from the condition of
the heart. Oft times directed toward the One who created the heart and loves it so unconditionally. Poetry is a gift of the Divine.
“Beautiful words stir my heart. I will recite a lovely poem about the king, for my tongue is like the pen of a skillful poet.” (Psalm 45:1, NLT)
I want to stop and study the intricacies of a flower without the concept of
I want to count the beat of raindrops.
I want to sway in the breeze like the towering trees, heart fluttering in unthought-of rhythm.
I desire a lifestyle where if you say, “I’ll be back in 30 minutes,” it could mean three hours—and that’s okay.
Sometimes, I think I want to go live in an unpowered rainforest.
I want to witness a caterpillar metamorphose into a butterfly.
I’d find a deserted field and stroll through it with my hands brushing the tops of wheat stalks for no reason at all.
I’d bask in the cloak of solitude.
I’d swim in the sea of silence.
Give me an island for one day and I’ll return to you an island, untouched and set apart.
The urge to rid my environment of clutter teeters on some sort of invisible brink. I can’t see it, but it’s there—I can feel it, taunting my soul.
I want to let my hair down, run barefoot along some shore, and find God in the whisper of the wind.
I want to be and not do.