Verse 0.

This is an echo of wishupons towards the heavens and their house of grace and their tabernacle of redemption.

That His vocals be the black of ink dotting love and crossing sin off the back of my forgetful hands,

Always quick to catch loss with not enough love,

Grasping fight with not enough peace,

Trembling at the idea of all things God and good and will sometimes crack a nail but will never let me fall .

Stretching boundless an arm’s length of beatitudes so should I forget where truth and purpose have packaged my joy I need only walk across the follicles of heaven’s hairs to find mercy, shadowing me a new set of restored.

Only needing my hand, need his in matrimony and the promise of a hope beyond do the vocabulary of my too often opinionated mouth,  always quick to judge and slow to apologize.

But God be my turning point.

Be David’s harp to my troubles in soul like King Saul all the way back to the memoirs of sin,

God be my saving grace.

Daniel speaks in a Mark 13:14 of the abomination of desolation that only an elect act will understand.

These be part of a celestial signal of a presidential king that shall come at the end of time when time be sisters to death,

Bearing no relevance against his deliverance vocals,

Shuddering graves and caves to call you out by name: saint.

Gathering unto 6 and a million more angelic voices the songs of Moses and the healed and redeemed,

Harnessing a paradise singers are yet to harmonize in.

But this be but just an echo of wishupons towards the heavens and their house of grace and their tabernacle of redemption.

His vocals be the black of ink dotting love and crossing sin off the back of my forgetful hands.

. . . Ever After

Happiness  be sun soaked dreams on a lay-away beach,

Rainbow tomorrows close to reach,

A holding of chests,

Tucked in beneath metal vests,

A laying on breasts plump with joy,

Rainfall in the driest of plains,

Dried raisin grains in sweet muesli plates,

Wheat grains and fresh pamphlets of bread

A layering of sunlit butter,

The putter-patter of fragile feet on ancient floors,

Old pores of wisdom, alive.

Happiness be a revived bond.

An old song falling off new lips,

The eclipse of humanity,

Sanity, restored.

Clarity, insured,

Assurance of never-ending wishes,

Kisses that grow on mistletoe,

Snow flakes engulfing mistakes,

Retakes of fast-forwarded peace,

Pieces of broken hearts turned to mosaics of a beautiful past.

Happy-ever-afters of never-ending-laughter.

Chapters of contagious resuscitation,

A continuation of love brought anew,

Dues of aching dunes drained by the morning light.

Happiness be. . .happy.

Of Toys and Things

Boys be toys I’ve learnt.

Be back rubs and back loves and break ups,

for nights when this crown act be a bore,

is perfect sheen run out,

when grace and poise and all its namesakes be just too much,

boys be toy I’ve learnt.

To pick a size, a make, a fit,

a hand, a habit, a ‘humor me’,

a three shade darker than all the night that hovers over me.

Playtime is a stress fee zone I’ve learnt.

Won’t let doubt through its cracks,

tag teams with appraisal,

a victory.

Matter of hide and never quite find jack of all heaven.

And maybe I like this game.

All hail the freedom of finding,

better the upper hand than none at all.

Dear Sunday…

I watched you draw yourself in after last night’s ecstasy,

You smelt like five thousand men whose joy lay in bee bottles after war,

And you Sunday, you were worn out.

Your sun, a scorching oven blaze, came out of hiding somewhere between the fiasco of overbearing moonlights and egotistical stars, almost as if to prove a point,

That it as here first,

That it owned here, first.

And as I watched your hours drag their feet, that 5a:m walk of shame; too late to leave the club, but just a bit too early to meet mamma on the doorstep,

You reminded me of a million lost ladies who found their voices between naked men and velvet sheets,

Until the clock struck twelve and their midnight seduction turned them into homeless mothers without a penny-cent’s worth of voice realities,

But you, Sunday, you were cruel.

You walked in on Saturday’s parade and hung on to five more hours of Monday’s worth.

Having said, you wanted to be felt.

It wasn’t for feeble minds to realize that you were the missing piece to last night’s puzzle.

You held Everyone’s secrets between your shy hours.

But you, Sunday, lay unappreciated, unnoticed.

And yet, here,

Once a week you’d peep through the curtain of life,

And everyone stood in awe at the calmness of you face,

And it was just as beautiful.

For My Forever

When God created love, a signaling of both hope and mercy was birthed,

drenched this human heart in crimson pools of eternity,

signed somewhere across it’s belly front your name and nail stamped to its backside,mine.

leaving only this skeleton of prayer to anchor us when either of us be too weak to carry the both of us.

I have never needed you to be perfect.

It was not you I fell in love with.

Was not the charm of your wizard tongue that drew me nigh.

or the sparkle of your marble forsees that lead my feet here.

Was not the eager happy fingers that held grip tight to my hands the first time we met.

Or the vibrato in your voice spelling out my name in full compliance.

It was not you that I fell in love with.

It was God.

It was the Jesus I found finding home beneath the burn of your eyes, promising both truth and trust with every flatter.

It was God.

It was the Jesus riding along the vibrato of your youth, signalling a hope and home when love be the last thing on our minds,

cheering an echoing of eternity for all the times i felt enough couldn’t have come a second sooner.

So when my voice be too weak to speak I need only open my heart to be heard.

and you heard me.

It wasn’t always like this.

It used to be okay for me to sit wrapped between this still chest of lonely,

to grasp at gasping half breaths,

to lay house in awkward silences of conversations I needed to share with someone, anyone.

It did not matter that my heart found solitude in small folds of happy soon-to-comes.

But somehow between the shattering of soft dreams and the coolness of alone I found God.

Which means I found myself.

Which means I found you.

And I am still finding you.

Somewhere between the escapade of love and making I am falling for you too.

There is an audience of hearsay that nags at the borderlines of this enclave.

You and I stand centerpiece at the pinnacle of busy lives.

But here, in the in between of chaos and perfect peace, you hold my hand, and I yours, and ours God’s, and marvel as the universe turns a tipping timescale of promises I trust to be kept.

Can we eternity here a little while longer?