The burning brands . . .
plucked from the ashes of the fire
Are the castaways
The fragments of lives
The unworthy
The heedless . . .
are priceless to the great lover of empty souls

When we
battle
with the Lords authority
we fight
from a place
of Victory
Not from a place
for victory

Its Simple …
There are no Heroes…..
Without Enemies.

All I ever wanted was to pour my soul,
Not to be judged,
Not to be silenced—
Only to find answers to the storms within.

I reached out, again and again,
Each time met with emptiness,
Each attempt shattering against walls unseen.

At last, I bowed my head to the truth:
It is not by will alone,
But by the hand of God that paths are carved.

You can fight, you can bleed,
You can cry out to the heavens—
But destiny will not be moved.

A strange, dense, heavy word.
Once, graceful and noble
or it seemed to be
until I used it too much.
I know that something fails,
that I’m losing its huge potential.

If I pronounce it aloud
it doesn’t shine anymore for me
in the tiny corners of my mind.
It lingered awkwardly, repeating
“I’m here!”.

The tangled threads
imposing new interpretations.
The materializing weight of sounds.
It's a bitter pill to swallow,
but I know the side effects.

The lightness of the feather
turns into a red brick.
When it hits me,
my inner calm ceases to exist.

I’m struggling to rationalize,
to be more tolerant.
And I just ask myself:
if I truly believe,
why do I say it?

The word so needed,
so loved,
in the silence,
in conviction,
in the presence of no absence.

Something authentic,
wasn’t it meant to be spoken?
So sinister…
it builds and destroys.

The word,

the idea

of




TRUST...

They tell us to hold steady,
keep the ground firm,
but the ground itself shifts—
silent adjustments beneath
the weight of old decisions.

Change rolls in like the tide,
deliberate, insistent;
some brace against the swell, while
others dive into its forward pull.

Neither stillness nor
movement alone can hold us—
we are in the in-between,
where each choice sends
ripples across the surface
and every hesitation
writes itself into tomorrow.

Sometimes I look in the mirror and cannot define myself
what are my morals, what are the rules to govern
I am in the peak of discern, noticeably keeping up with charade
I am yet to be sure, what is my role to begin with
who do I play today, the actor with grace
and imposter weighs, this place is a fantasy
I decay, in the body given to me, there is no gameplay
I live and believe, everything anyone says

Throughout sixteen seasons
I merely looked out of
the five bay windows of my
brick walled birdcage at
shadows of Elm trees
dancing along either
side of the street.

I was only
a lonely observer.

But late one night deep
in the heart of the fifth
summer I sensed an
odd strength surging
through
my weakened wings.

I quietly opened the
door of my cage, glided
down the driveway and
onto the street below,
enticed by warm blustery
and liberating midnight
winds under the strange
glow of moonlight through

translucent
sunbaked
and
cracked
clay
clouds.

I no longer just longingly
admired the view of the
dancing shadows on the
street through a window;
I actually felt the shadows
of those living branches
and leaves dance with
my shadow and felt them
caress my

hair
face
arms
legs
mind
and
spirit

as I did a
low test flight with
them for
only about forty feet
over and along the
back street below.

I longed to continue
my solo night flight
like a bird through
the midnight air in
currents of streets
and hundreds of miles
of highway where my
baby and I like two
newly
freed birds could fly
across the

Sea
of
Change
and
of
Destiny

where we could at last
be truly free in our
hearts, in our minds,
and also physically.

But like a well-trained
domesticated bird
I reluctantly returned
to the large cage of my
mind where I continue
to dream of being free--

my
gentle
companion
and
me.

Gone too soon,
too far away,
far beyond reach,
without saying goodbye.
Only memories are left now.