An angel in an orchard,
She said it spoke strange things.
No angels, or voices ever yet spoke to me.
Though my thoughts debate and argue matters endlessly.
It is with my own inner voice, my doubtful thoughts speak.
And surely, God has never spoken to me?
And my God is life, God of everything,
But my end is the ground, mortal darkness, or ashes of things.
And an angel in an orchard told her strange things,
It never spoke to me.
I was never foolish enough to follow my empty dreams.
And my God is light, and full of energy,
But my death approaches, a date is set and I am late - it will not delay.
A date written by my God, who will not betray.
And I well wish others, as my enemies thrive and laugh and smile,
And of me, they say the most ugly things, without basis,
And not in revenge, no... for the fun of such things.
And I admire Joan, the witch my ancients were convinced was a saint.
The witch our modern world no longer forsakes, nor burns to ashes upon the rough-made always-condemned stake.
And though they may not be true, I wish I heard her angels speak.
And I foolishly admire those with more from life to seek.
And around me, all simply believe,
But doubt has been my nature from infancy.
And I second-guess my every second-guess.
I wonder what will happen to my now empty body upon massive eternity.
Torn to shreds, or burnt, indistinguishable from cigarettes once seen.
And even so, I believe.
Although God sends me no audible messages, and his angels - I just cannot see.
And I doubt everything, even me.
And I wish some angel had spoken to me.
But all I have is intuitions, dreams and feelings of unease.
And perhaps a voice, inaudible to me, speaks of things unspoken.
But in such a thing I cannot just believe.
And the world itself, I doubt as I do see.
I doubt everything. I doubt you. I doubt me.
And God I sense not, not much at all just lately.
And I have never been foolish enough to follow my dreams.
And yet, somehow still, silly me, I believe.
And around me, I hear a million angels whisper unspoken things.
And yet, they speak to doubting me.
And I hear not a thing.
It's a predicament - I am doubting me.
And yet, the night breeze, I sensed, it became a hurricane in the morning, my dream, in it as though truth itself, is to know that night breeze, as though in romance- to romance the mystery of the hidden truth. For I love the night breeze, which so few yet can sense.
Friday, August 28, 2015
It is my doubt not to speak
Posted by Marc Evan Aupiais at 7:32 AM
Dad; Husband; Christian (Catholic); Irish. — News; Business; History; Civilizations; The Western World; Speech; Culture; Law. (Pronounced: Aw-Pea-Air.)
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