Calling.

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You call to me as my heart calls to you.
Each in our own separate universe,
Yet aligned.
Linked by the all invasive spirit that inundates human flesh
Seeking connection, seeking love.
We search, we probe.
Finding points of contact, like the abalone we cling
Seeking fulfilment in each other that is found only in the eternal, omnificent spirit of Him that created us to love.

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The wheel turns.

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The seasons change.

The hands of time, relentless, click yet another notch in the universal clock.

Seconds, minutes, hours, fall; frail as autumn leaves

Never to be seen again

Moving toward the midnight chime when time itself will cease to be

And all that’s gone before as fleeting shadows pass away.

And only love remains.

When the party’s over.

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When the party’s over,

The last of guests have gone,

The importance is the after taste

With which you greet the dawn.

What is it you remember

Of all that’s said and done

The deeply felt communions

Or the feasting and the fun?

The drinks indeed were tasty

The hog roast was divine,

But the thing that lingers most with me?

The hearts that shared with mine.

Sweeter far that cocktails

The blends within each one.

Each soul enhancing flavour

Of our life beneath the sun.

Sky painter.

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He adds a tint of colour to the canvas of the sky

The faintest hint of pink in the smoke trials of the sky.

Augmented by a misty band encircling the hills

So stepping on my balcony my heart within me thrills.

I love His gentle brush strokes that brighten up the morn

Reminders of that day to come that one day soon will dawn.

When earth beneath a cloak of peace will greet His smiling face

And every pain and every tear will softly be erased.

Paper Wings.

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Some have wings of paper, they fold towards the sky.
The wind draws on before them but cannot lift them high.
Some take wings of paper, so beauteous to behold,
With crimson flush and purple, touched with hint of gold.
And rushing o’er some precipice they proudly furl them forth
In arrogance forgetting, they’re paper wings of course.
And crashing to oblivion, their tattered wings do fall
Sadly they discover, they had no faith at all.
Discarding their endeavours they cast their dreams away,
Continue on as insects that crawl all through the day.
But some grow wings of purpose through which the spirit flows.
Pulsating in its courses a transformation goes.
As bloods engage the butterfly to stiffen up those wings,
The wings that once were paper become the spirit’s things,
With flesh and bone and power to lift up to the sky
To see the world below them as heavenward they fly.