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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.