For this seeker of Truth
it was always a game of tag
God’s breath on my ear
a Holy jab to this soul’s ribs
or Him tickling my intuition awake
then a turn and chase into
mental fog then spotting
and losing Him in a mirrored forest
then finding Him out alone
in an open field of awareness
and with the next step
of my spiritual foot
quicksand
up all night writing because I wanted some sparkling revelation to offer this morning but words failed and I have nothing to show but the sloppy stains of scribbles and cross-outs maybe I'll learn som
truth aches when an overread book is continually misunderstood or when a love that needs to shout is left to linger unspoken on lips
to this swirling existence we write about so why not dabble in the dialect and points of view? use solitary clouds and footprints fresh stains and old smells the embraces of snakes turn words upside d