Ales you ask, who am I who dares to write.
Some would say not anyone,
while others would not give me so much credit.
A lonely soul?
a bleeding heart?
a glutton for punishment?
I laugh at all three insinuations!
For what is the soul but the body and breath that
God generously breathes into it.
And what use is a heart that bleeds,
never to feel what we believe it owns.
Fit only to control the flow of life running through
a feeble body's mortal veins.
A glutton I am for sure,
Yet I hunger for no food man could conjure up.
Mans' heart beats only for selfish reasons.
With no true emotion emanating from it.
No ideals of love are created in it's limited, red sphere.
Man's emotions lay in ambush for the weak at heart.
There I go again!!
using a metaphor contining shallow false truth.
So who am I?
But a pair of hands to be used.
A mouth that utters nothingness to a world gone deaf,
never hearing truth even if it were shouted from the world's
highest hill top.
What do I have but a few gift's God kindly loans me?
To do with whatever his good will chooses.
Purpose.
I pray I have none of my own!
I don't want to know where I will go.
Nor what I should be.
Nor what my eyes should see,
nor whom they should cry for.
BUT forever after I do desire to see!
For knowledge and understanding to take root somewhere
deep inside my empty being.
Then perhaps I'll understand what God wants of me.
For I am but flesh,
a withering bag of polluted bones.
With only this limited earth to roam.
Where is home. No where. Everywhere.
It's where the sweet sounds make music for my ears.
It's where I find quiet peace.
And I can surly find that most anywhere!
My soul is but a home for the knowledge of God to grow.
And when that precious gift of human blood
ceases to pump through my old veins.
I'll be kept in memory by the living God
that humans can't rightly name.
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