Grace and Rage

Oh, to be a piece of hope and grace, never a fierce of sin and rage.

Oh, to be a harmony of poetry, not a disgrace for anyone to be.

Oh, to be a graceful wind, never a rageful glaze to be.

Oh, to dance with the olds, but not a sin to be.

Fierceful the sun is, not her kids to be. For the present is hard to be seen, but never the future that it is to be.

Awful is the span of time, it never rhymes. Just as it's coming to be, but never it's past that is prayed to be brought back to the scene.

Rhythm is a played scene of a miracle; a prayer is set to be. But a rhyme is not willed to be. Do not fall into despair, when your life keeps on coming never your short-fallen dreams, for it was never deemed to be.

A rose of a soul in a hymn, in the heavens, and everything that lies above and below. Of only praises and chants to every living being and what it is to become.

Poetry in motion, prophecies splattering from their mouths like honey on its homecomb. Not too new or unfamiliar, just a smell of the present. Seasons change in between, with beauty overflowing them, but no pain sting that comes following it. Rain but no thunderstorm following it.

Only a reality, of open eyes, raw feelings and a soul that attaches to everything

One could only dream of a fantasy.

One like me, like an only mortal.