Thursday, January 27, 2011

One Period.

Latley I purse my lips a lot, tilt my head to one side when I'm listening or thinking, (or thinking while I should be listening), sing in my tongues, listen to sad songs on purpose, draw still-lifes at work, clean my house a bit too much, wear sweatshirts and grey ankle boots often, stare into the sun a little too long, take pictures on the side's of roads, forget my words, think about this up and coming November, think about the summer time and the time I will not be able to spend in Prescott, think about moon hanging down low over the hills surrounding us, plump and full dripping out stars like juice from it's busting seams; I think of my family of blood not shared, their compassion and ever watchful eyes, their comfort and grace towards my ever failing flesh, I think of their hearts full of fire illuminating bright like a distant torch signaling the oncoming battle- the battle they have been fighting before my time had began; I think of the ones I will miss if I were ever to leave, the ones I would cry over, the ones I would call without second thought; I wonder about the years close to come, falling onto eachother as they pile in a line before me, dauntingly and silent they sit waiting- forever waiting; I rehearse scripture in my mind, stare into the faces of stangers I pass through a wet mist of the fog as we walk the cold and murky streets, read their hearts as they pass, asking in my heart if they were alike me, wondering if they were waiting on the King above all kings, or if in their heart was a sufferage, a weight, a dark and sinister power that grip tight, sufficating all it's love letting it die and exude slow and painful...if their hearts were not alike mine; these things I think of so often, perform so often, experience so often, and so often I wonder how many times a day I say the word "I" instead of the word "Him".
-Toby K.

1 comment:

  1. Mmmm...I do so look forward to these sort of posts. Your writing is so colorful and paints such a picture in my made me think of this emily dickinson poem

    "A poor torn heart, a tattered heart,
    That sat it down to rest,
    Nor noticed that the ebbing day
    Flowed silver to the west,
    nor noticed night did soft descend
    nor constellation burn,
    Intent upon the vision
    of latitudes unkown.

    The angels, happening that way,
    This dusty heart espied;
    Tenderly took it up from toil
    and carried it to God.
    There, - sandals for the barefoot;
    There, - gathered from the gales,
    Do the blue havens by the hand
    lead the wandering sails.