CONFESSION ZERO

I am not ready to relinquish this kingdom. I am ill-equipped to handle such blood. I am pulling for Love, that she might do her eternal duty, spirit evermore in the garden. Heaven, by any other name, disregards the rareness of creation, it’s Love. In this beginning there is Love. Now Love is not formless, empty or dark. The spirit of Love is the eartH. The Love of spirit is humankind’s equal duty. © 2011 by mark prime

I know what makes you write. They’re not my words. They’re of you. Words are part of who we’ve become. Your spirit sees it quite another way… Love? Yes. ~ Shouldn’t we do something before the final sunrise of man? Before fear replaced survival? Yes. © 2011 by mark prime

The willow tree’s a storyteller- words brushed the ground. The wind, her jealousy as temptress, bristled in my veins as the cold lowered her ire. It is time to think on death. It is time to reach inside. It is time to make my voice known. The wind, her jealousy as temptress. The willow tree’s the storyteller- hope fell happily across her lap. The monstrousness is that of man garnering knowledge, discovering who he’s always been is far harder than he could ever have imagined. © 2011 by mark prime