This man he is writing, writing in the sand
But the what and the why, I cannot understand
They condemn me and he bends down in the dirt,
Does he even care that I'm going to be hurt?
"Let he who is without sin, cast the first stone"
I look around and not one rock has been thrown
Once more he gets down and starts to write
I can't explain it, but somehow I feel like I'll be alright
One by one they start to leave, their stones left untouched
Stopped by a man whose only response was writing in the dust.
The elders leave first, and slowly, each go home
Until it is He and I standing there all alone.
What could he write that caused them to leave?
Here was a story none could explain and few could believe
He rose, turned to me, and said:
"Where are they who would have you dead?"
"They are left. They are no longer here"
The wind came and whatever he wrote had disappeared
"They do not condemn you. Neither, my child, do I.
Go now and sin no more in the grace of the Most High"
This man has given me a new life, a second chance
The man who looks at me with such a loving glance
I know not what he wrote or why he even cared
But from a stranger's kindness, my life was spared
So here I stand this day, this very moment
To witness to the power of atonement
So let me live as his word commands
And pay the price that true love demands
The wisdom of a stranger's writings in the sand

Sire, indeed, I understand,
warden of my infancy, first to feed me
letters ready for my mouth to make words,

someday, today, we make wonder, whying
from a while ago, being made wondering why

If today there were 10 billion breathing thinkers,
all ones, alone, in meditation,
making breathed thinkings,

without the knowing used, tehkne, indeed, secret
NDA bound mental threadings
through mental awl holes,
and needless fretting
pin head limitations
of dancers,
ecstatic…
we may as well imagine
any life like mind, fitting
patterns accepted as true,
the grown ups teachings,
all proven when America, became
the idea nobody takes serious, Spirit of '76
the populist, mob, lot of all laborers
in touch with ra'knacks as a class.

The Smithy, and the Selvedge stitcher, and the spinners,
spinning tales to top the last one left laughing, yesterday,
status quo of the fat and happy,
that's what needs preservation

con-science, con-sequence of con-venience
con-served with all the honor due
Providential Wisdom Lord Mother of Mindforms

and every winter, we were warm, I remember,
Grandpa, thinks, we were warm, I remember,

but, still, with use of history in media conserved since
1910, landmark year in these stacks of idle words,
redeemed with one use, ready, read, done,
rich in mercy sown in local nearby kindness,

the effect of music and motion pictures,
we all have seen the movies of Solomon,

apples of gold in pitchers of silver, seen on screen,
since 1927, to entertain those long used as labor,
and in constant craving for fermented things
and circuses with death defying acts, to see.
as one might entertain a god's worshippers,

presenting drama to the masses, as messages
from the highest Academy of Arts and Sciences,

ever devised to hold the hearts desires of all,
in gnostalgic recognition of outcast pain and misery,

Industrial might, right, enough nukes to undo us all,
yet the debt due on funds borrowed for war remain,
no war, yet, but there is this global debt, due, indeed

to ignorance, but, we did warn you.

In the spirit, revived in 66, from a bit of old mold
discovered in a mine shaft northeast of Yuma,
cherished with a friendly McClelland, as a meme,
remember the effect of the acceptable fast, at last,
the pushing back,
of the iron curtains imposing

hope upon hopelessly invincible ignorance,
if a man does not sweat, he must not eat,
it is the only fair way, we swear, Aye, Indeed

we swore, and went and did the chore,
went through hell to prove it a lie,
lived to tell only those they made believe.

Indeed, those were good ideas we used,

we set the captives free,
we did, we did, we did, didn't we

well, not me, but my natural born wedom,
my native cultural heritage of knowledge,

which is a cultivar taken from the tree of life,
one may envision original intention to invent,
us, as assisting inquisitorial tools for thought,

conversational adversarial engines of ingenuity,
artificed tict tension at central most ache to know
how does a free spirit take weforming spirit form
first one thing makes another, and so on, and on

seed, soul, spirit, mind, point stretching into ever
and back, in time to seem as normal as now, squared

to stand stone straight, upright, grounded, upheld
custom for teaching good walking
in perpendicularity.

At tension, presencing being as ware, soft.
At the squared norm, upright, atop perpendicular toes,
tipping all
whys into the mill,

making up my mind
to make my self
known
to you, as an admirer, as a neighbor, next
galaxy on the left 2 pasecs
through the Hubble Deep Field
in mindsped godthought possible, see,
we become a gallactic blink,
as significant as the average star
in the heavens.

On earth, yes, you are so significant,
as it is in heaven.

Exceptional, yes, on the national level,
we are bits in the arms of the average galaxy,

God pays us all the attention we pay the reasons
for religious wars on specs of speculative ratiocination.

i got hit with the true reality the other day,
and the reality always hurts.
the reality that sometimes things don't go your way,
and sometimes the person you thought God made for you was made for someone else.
and it's hard to understand that,
its hard to understand that you are not ment for them.
it's hard to understand that some things that some things that you wished were ment to be arn't.
and every song you sent to them,
every song they sent to you,
it'll remind you of them.
thats the true reality.
but there will be a time of all of Jesus's healings will finally heal you whole.
there will come a time where you will hear that song on the radio,
and think,
hey thats a good song,
and not start crying to the beat of it.
there will come a time when you won't beat yourself over what you could've done differently that would change the way he feels about you.
Some things arn't ment to be permanent,
thats the true reality.

Should I die before you, forgive me
Forgive my absent shoulder for your head
For my ears hearing not your cries
For my arms too numb to hold you

Should I die before you, forgive me
Forgive my image for slipping through your mind
For my voice for echoing to silence
Forgive my heart for not beating more for you

Should I die before you, forgive me
Forgive me for shattering our future plans  
For turning our happy places into ghost towns
For taking your happiness to the grave with me

Should I die after you, I forgive you.

Travel free my inner scapegoat
You’re liberated, off this hook
No more shame-horned
Guilt-stomached dread,
       scarce enough to wrong-bare
Not startle-sneezed or tremble-shook

I excise redundant remnants
Bad wattle glands where crime hangs large
Not Billie-blame,
Nanny-regret
       or just a wrongless kid
No fair-trial felon, biased charge

Imagine dropping heavy torts
The solid clunk as fault hits floor
Past carried light
Kind compassion
       wide enough to weight-bare
Rich mixed plant pasture evermore
An end to serveless inner war

To forgive is our weakness
To pardon a crime so unjustifiable that
Our body shutdown in memory of it
Being static and null in our judges
In respect for our own calmness that
I hope it won't be a calamity of my
Own rationality in how I assume
Which is good and evil.

But somehow, to forget is our prowess
A strength that we teach ourselves so we
May let go of the bad memory
that may strangle us until we retch our spirit away
That's why, we bury it under our soil
And water it in hope
That it blossoms thorn roses so we remember not to touch its stem
And hurt ourselves again.

When tiresome rowing takes its toll,
Brings dare to care for what's beneath.
Long lost memories emerge from darkness,
Like the drowned, following surface call.
A cry for help, left with no answer,
Now meets our dread, begging release.
Reunion with those we once held dear,
Only to recognize their faces,
Their silhouette, their traits. Identify them,
To call old sorrows by their name.
We know them truly, to their core,
And wish were spared from this truth.
We close their eyes, bring them ashore.
A rescue arriving long overdue.

But the final push has yet to be made—
To find room for love in a grieving heart.
Where we can lay them to their grave,
Bid farewell, before we part.
With each epitaph, every tombstone,
Each pain brought where it desperately yearned,
To end the suffering, rejoice salvation,
Our own anchorage lessens weight.
Encouraged, we’re back to the boat,
To keep on making the heroic choice.
One day, unburdened, we too will float,
Feel pure, cared, loved, and rejoice.