Separate from our Source #considerallthings

Five hours from it, the air smells like ocean. Last night’s rain dotting windshields. Two cats on the hood of a jeep begging for food to eat, before the chickens are out to take it for themselves. Before it makes its way to them, it sits on shelves, waiting, for us with the lock-pick fingers to crinkle open and scoop like stingy saints. Like fast moving clouds. We may be dark gray mounds, but don’t think that always indicates rain. The keyhole of grace is the choice to abstain. Remember that. Next time someone calls something gracious. Remember how close the ocean is to all of us on the east coast. Seagulls circle a Walmart parking lot. Salt in the air. Sand in our soil.

Five hours from it, the dissent of the District is in my ears. Stoking fears, and rocking the boat so we won’t rethink our grip. Throwing up over the side of our ship, because captain can’t seem to steady it. But then again, why? Swimming isn’t so bad. There are lots of boat rides to be had. The ocean is still the ocean no matter the ship we elect to float on top of it. This government. Invented by underestimaters of the word freedom. Written by misunderstanders of the world we live in.

Fifteen thousand years from it, my ancestors sing unintelligible lullabies to my mind. Shut my doubts while I close my eyes. We have been here before. Lift your chin and smell it in the air just how close we are to our source. Five hours from it. Fifteen thousand years to numb it. And yet the birth of Mankind out from the torn folds of nature’s womb still stings. We cut ours, but we can not cut hers. And she grips us like the roots beneath trees. For the most part unseen. But felt. Delved deep. While raised heads seek crowns in orange sunlight and rainbow leaves. You can call it two parts, but on a long enough timeline, we will all see what is one. On a broad enough lifeline, we will feel what a misplaced sense of separation has won. A chance to be two together. All wrapped up and warm. By a mother who only ever wanted to see us set free. And far more than we, this buxom planet knows what freedom really means.

God, The Concept

Let me tell you the reality of God is just an idea.
Fictional treasure is envied but never stolen.
See, prophets will be killed,
martyrs who turn idol can be taken,
but ideas are intangible. As real as unreal.
Strength enough to shape and change existence,
with enough intelligence to know not to physically exist within it.

And in this internal manner,
God, The Concept,
is permanent.