Original

 

Original

Twirling clouds of foam gently kiss the crystal, earthly, grains of sand,

As the sunset inhales the waves of the soft sea ocean;

The shadows of my palms form hands of forgiveness in bliss,

Portraying modest devotion,

Caressing infilling motions

Of the wind’s cool breath’s careful caress

Embracing the gentle spirit residing within me.

As the company,

Of which I am blind and cannot see,

An immaculate portrait, original sculpture of one’s unknown destiny;

Raise whispers to my distant senses of serene music and pure peace,

As I grasp and withhold my Maker’s intimate secrecy. And at ease

I slowly,

Began to wonder who crafted my intellectual being,

As a slight duplicate of The Image,

The One who has my lost soul lingering to follow.

And silently, I lie as a foundation on a promise,

A fulfillment of The Word, The Sword to be guarded.

Humbly approaching, He regarding I as His heir,

Unconsciously, I have become intertwined with who calms the endless, worldly stares.

It is He,

Who makes me the green oak leaf that is uplifted by graceful winds,

The smooth rock on which the clear springs of life are steadily rushing and overflowing;

A minute cedar bud, a seedling not yet birthed, but rooting deep in a dark aching land,

A poetess writing poetry, You are the visual ink that flows through the pen.

The kiss of one’s lips to warm milk to ease an unquenchable thirst,

You have become my sole direction as the beautiful North Star, a compass, and first

I am immersed, into the red flaming fire, as pure gold has been requested.

My soul is branded in the steel of iron,

The simple purity is tested.

And yet, to the end, I reach toward the open gleaming sky,

Growing and sprouting as fruit ripe for eternal harvest and my

Dwelling at the peak of the terrain on the plateau,

Is amongst the highest of the high, and embedded with the meek

Considering I the lowest of the low.

A melody of a key barely noticed,

A gesture, then touch to a harp’s string,

A thought to be soon composed

Into a priceless masterpiece.

I see,

I have become the Image all in all,

Of the true, flawless, perfect original.

Reviews

[Everett DeValle]

I'm surprised there is no comment for this wonderful poem...just flowed with beauty and soul. Breathtaking work.