I just let my mind have the wheel sometimes, my fingers do the rest,
Perhaps some ancient spirit takes hold that gets me to confess;
With vanishing fears I transform into some lonesome hero.
Facing a fury: locked in battle against some deadly dragon wanting my princess as chattel,
I endure the adversary's afflictive battle: sensing a chain of events locked in the simplest actions;
Satisfaction takes hold as a crisis ensues where guts and glory define the darkest hour.
For there is a power that makes demons cower: lifting normal men to champions bower,
There is an honor beyond comprehension sealed within humanities heart of glory;
There Is a cryptic logic that uses broken rhythm hidden in that chaotic story.
Yet when it is performed it takes the world by storm,
For there is a flower of water growing deeper than any oceans song;
Throngs of mermen have seen its dance as its words were enhanced by faithful intentions.
Perchance you have seen it yourself when all seems lost as single trumpets mourns,
The spirit takes flight from his heavenly home alighting on a man who felt all was lost;
Like roaming Sampson of old: though blinded by false loves fate.
You break the pillars of the unbreakable cold cold heartstrings gate,
Throw caution to the wind: like a tidal wave taking command;
The war is set In this worlds roulette: for the die is cast for principalities towers.
A gentle wind of change shakes the humblest hearts,
Changing a resting sheep into a full grown man;
His young girlfriend transforms into an Amazonian woman.
She stands beside him : and weds him to this new nations plan,
Riding through the night on white horses grazing;
First they feed the people with words tempered by peace.
Secondly they breed a place where all worship freely,
Thirdly they nourish the mind: body and spirit;
Fourthly knowledge is taught for all to inherit.
Fifthly the dead in spirit are offered a chance to live,
Sixthly a rest and refreshing is the liberties bread;
For On the seventh day the Everlasting Daystar shall appear.
Blessings,
Joyce B.
But the real countdown started with our first scream at birth.
Georg
Great poem.
ET