And then in a wink they all tumbled in,
carried by light so focused and thin
it pierces through souls and links every chain,
knits every lining, births every pain.

The man with the staff and genuine laugh
carries weight in the breadth of his skin.
He wonders and ponders; a chief of his craft
but the secrets lie locked from within.

Her eyes, they appear so glassy but clear
to the point and the color of rye
Her breath is the paint, the mind is easel
the process so joyous, so infinitely peaceful

So much more is here now than what was before
When that misshapen beggar who came to call at the door
and it knocked and it knocked three times someone banged
before someone answered, before someone came.

The pages are turning, now the story gave way
to the things that will come to pass one day.
The time clock keeps ticking, the sands running thin
and pages are turning, friction in spiral-like spin.

The man wipes his brow,
for the days have been long
and the crop is now ready to go
the plowing can start, that we paint our art
It's near time that we reap what we've sown

Her lighting crackles, light litters the sky
In pain you shall bring forth children
Watch out for crows, for everyone knows
The grain strong, ripe and spry,
the end result simply brilliant

only this time we fly
and can see with the eye,
All that is true
and Im telling you
It's time to choose.
Are you slave or the master?
Or Neither but give freely the lightlove from within
for surely you must choose if the reaping ensues
at the time that we're reborn again.

brandyrox ©