Friday, October 14, 2011

A Vacant Throne

A veil seen at last for what it is. A gate swings, centuries old. The legendary bolt of lightening consumes us all. Promises, promises. Aphorisms in support of undoing. Prose bent on a vacant throne. Heed the beggar who sees your heart. Vermont now, Heaven later. Gutter coinage abounds. What about what's in the reeds? Chuckling, skipping, making a squall. Abating. Walking the shallows, dreaming of snails. A place to go come winter equals prayer. Touching base matters, it's how I learn. Slope of a hill seen a new way. Christ beckons, discipleship looms. Fried fish, potatoes in lard, sour beer and later a slow fine dance. This is not the end. Will you not at last consent to your holy soliloquy?

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