untitled (former working title: true music)
as if one have
all the value judgements
in this—
tribulation period,
if only wind
instruments were
invented to share
a message, —
would souls
truly speak
in the present moment?
time & its insignificance
like metanoia
—a paradigm shift—
suddenly, anxiety
changing one's drift
from kabbalah
to phonetics
linguistics, semantics
hermeneutics of the Torah
from ancient
to the renaissance
what more can
one presage?
neither—
if a believer
prays to a false God
[of an othered religion]
permitted but
wronged sainthood
senile syllogisms & oblivion
Inclement Weather Upon Us
There was this doom
impending,
which
science calls an
"Amospheric river".
But I've seen a
different scenario,
during a time
of this type of weather
on my own,
mammato-cumulo
clouds, low-lying
which happened
just right after
my own mourning—
That's the time
when I learned about
prophecy
that [someone have said]
does not exist in your
modern society
—I violently disagreed
due to their ignorance:
like no such a squall wind
is ever-so-significant
But,
without 'spiritual discernment',
(truth be told),
the numbed person can be
wearier than those lying
sickly in their deathbeds
and getting old.
Iniquity Shall Abound
It's always like that
Humankind, denoting fear
The gods..coming back—
I did it again
It's a sin
Father forgive me
For I know what I do
I know what I choose
Time and time again
I choose Me over You
The first man condemned me
The last Man redeemed me
The inner man damns me
The new man reviles “Me”
I give up again
It's all I can do
So take “me” away
And fill me with You
For I know once I am more like You
I'll be the best Me I can be
Sunday morning Gospel
At a southern Baptist church
Praising with the choir
Listening to the Word of God
Where grudges are forgiven
And friendships re-united
We sinners find forgiveness,
Family, and a home
But here I sit
Alone at home
I couldn't be roused
To my own Father's house
I can hear the church bells in the distance
Calling white-washed tombs to repentance
Calling broken souls to be renewed
Calling crushed hopes to stand firm
Yet, here I sit
Looking out the window alone
Listening to their tolling
Refusing to be more
Than an armchair theologian
If my “deeds” are just words
Then they are not worth talking of
If I didn't speak to my Father today
Then why do I expect answers
If we are “the Body”
Why are we so apathetic
So CONSUMED by our own lives
That our faith wastes away
And as these thoughts come to me
I make myself more comfortable
Still refusing to be any more
Then an armchair theologian.
From the hand of god
To the breath of man;
Four parts a twine
The inner strands
That twist the weave
And bend time to life.
To round the loom
With subtle spin
Deflects, reflects, the passing blow
And turns to par
A simple man
A listless end.
Unto the nexus that he trust.
Unto the favor, rhythm, and creed.
What god he made if his apparition
Shall span the eons to his confines.
To string himself undone
Remade by fabric not touched by man
And cast himself
Ourselves
Beaneath it's deapths
To breath the air
That angels stole.
To rest our heads
Down pon our knees
And ponder ways
To pass eternity.
For the glimmer of god
Had lost its sheen.
For his golden arc
Has past my gaze
Before and again
And shown it's guise
In every shade.
For surely the glimmer of god
Has lost it's shine.