A man who falls and never rises is a man dead before his time. Pride really does come before a fall, and then a shattering encounter with frailty lashes us to die. So men wander spent and drunk, always dying, never dead. Caught between the living hell of knowing and the oblivious death of stupor. Can hope ever live when faced with such a death?
A man swiftly sees a generous soul as a place to weep and wail; hoping for a small deposit to aid the journey down. Eyes that see in love, stop a hiding heart. Defences leap and distance quickly gains reprieve, while aching ears hear mercy and compassion’s hopeful song. Honour’s call seems out of place. Can anything penetrate stupor’s haze?
Spirit’s song sings a deeper note than any drug can dare. Hidden treasures deep within hopeless castle’s depths stir to wakefulness. Ancient echoes of life’s full bloom, resonate within these dungeon corridors. A forgotten fragrance rises invading space and time as an ancient soul wakens up to life’s creative possibility. Can it be?
Tears pour down as memory’s journey opens wounds locked in silent agony. Hope comes uninvited to the fore. Struggle rumbles and whispers counter seditious lies that would hint life could once again be held as dear. In the balance, a future leaving legacy for dreams or the rapid slide to old oblivion. Who can win if one is weak?
Mysteries are part of darkness and this light. What seems dark can only be full of light if love’s transparency is loosed. Desperate cries that mumble unspoken grief rise before a fountain that so easily loosens deadly chains. Impossible is only found within the dark. Light plays wild and paints a dream of transformed joy. Can I believe?
Author – Bill Tidsbury