You think poetry is dead.
I see revival
an art form
full of guts and surrender.
Chemistry conveyed in pounding pulses,
Carried in melodious chords,
Counting the occurrences to come:
When I will feel this again.
Even in my second encounter I am still
Confusing the collision of drumsticks and drums
With the sound of my heartbeat;
I am convinced they are correlating.
The illuminated colors bounce from my eyes onto the walls.
I consume each lyric resulting in echoes throughout my bloodstream.
It is not capricious to capitulate to this moment
When Tonight has promised me happenings quite chimerical.
Such a colossal occasion couldn’t take place without this surrender.
So, here I am casting my Coins in hopes of capturing it all again.
And with Fingers Crossed,
I await the culmination of my next countdown.
My hands stay busy. They know Labor and do not dismiss their tedious daily tasks. But let me take a minute to open them towards Heaven-the very Heaven that is not as far as many think. You, God, never fail to pour an exceeding amount of strength into my palms when I reach to touch Yours. How could I not spend my time on earth praising You with these hands? You have created them with the faculty to change the world around me. May they continuously embody fulfillment, be prosperous unto everything that they touch, and never grow weary in performing Your works. Lastly, may I remember that the only way to accomplish all of this is to constantly participate in the act of Surrender. I worship you with small hands while you breathe Abundance into my fingertips.