CONFESSION ZERO

Upon the edges of The Mother’s temple, splashing her soul that's filled with goodness, snuggling with her unblemished love, rotating like honey-joy spun to form laughter, comes a silent prayer; a wish mad-thrown to Heaven. With all of the hard years fogging the windows, mothers look past the broken dish, the noise, her child’s flaws are made of angel dust that she'll breathe away. Prayers aren’t answered, they’re performed, said Mother. Happy Birthday, Mama...

(The Beginning of the Wind 4 by Jana Sharecky ) The wind cuts through with a chill. I am but a man, one man, I’ve no more than any other. What is it that I may give that others cannot? Might this wind be for me? Might it be telling me to lift my feet, act upon the truths that I believe, leaving room for flowers and thorns? Then the voice said,  No one can vanquish god… © 2011 by mark prime