Life is Music Play it Louder

The moon, she knows my secrets, yet I do not mind. She whispers her own to me through constellations of my ancestors.
I tilt my chin upward in supplication: What use is the heart when its unprotected like blades of grass from the onslaught of winter?
The moon dances with fireflies in the velvet night. Dawn, the sun will still shine. How does 1 reach this unconditional state of being?
And I am only able to produce tears that freeze as icicles before they leave my face: a snow princess in tattered raiment.
Yet I am blessed for the shifting sands of people, the hourglass, broken, diamonds left, shining beside my shadow.

What fine hour is this? My breath released sparrows imprisoned within my diaphragm. They took flight, bursting as fireworks across the sky.
I am witness to ascension, the most holy of all miracles. From my body, rebirth. I watch the sky, cerulean, emblazoned with my own emotion.
What fresh hell is this? My soul, bare, as smoke signals from lives past, elbowing clouds for room to take flight in the same sky.
With a solitary breath, I spit forth all that is hidden from my conscious self. I am witness to my psyche trailing across the Eastern shore.
I breathe again and multi faceted butterflies tickle the back of my throat, they too, wish to be let free.
I open my mouth wide & all of nature erupts from my very soul. I sit back, exhausted yet relieved for each breath was weight, released.

Dear God, do you realize people take your words & twist them to suit their needs & desires? Every holy book that exists, mazes to the masses.
I do not mean people who know you God, ones who feel your breath in summers wind, nor one’s who silently speak to you in nights darkest hour.
There are people that claim they have a direct line to you God, yet only through them. There are those that turn from you due to this.
I do not proclaim to know you God, for I am human and still alive and breathing, I shall meet you when my soul passes from this plane.
Yet I cannot deny such an extreme force so divine and above us all that exists, that has many names and not just one, yet I call you God.
Do you know people are fighting over you, God? It is sad to witness. Your message is one of love and peace. Please, shake them from slumber.
While you shake the preaching from slumber, God, please silence the people who attack those that recognize you exist. For I am tired of this.
Dear God, my name is Susan. I am but one human. I know that not one of us is better than the rest. To me, it is simple and I have just begun.
That which is greater than us all can never be explained as absolute until death. Dear God, please, help me make them understand.

If with burden of your heavy heart, though, in airs of contentment, you can fly, do not dare look back nor falter in the whipping wind.
Do not repeat the fate of Icarus, let not your spirit fall short and allow pretentious human existence to taint what is natural and pure.
No matter what is placed before you, moon, sun, planets, constellations, in flight; child, sit for a spell, they are not yours to own
Let go. Soar. Allow what is divine to guide you. You’ll be your own shade then, a little oasis in the desert dry

Time, eternal death of day and morning glory rebirth of one million constellations waking, then settling for slumber
My lungs gasp every waking millisecond of existence, time. When you are weary, who reads you a bedtime story?
Is it the limbs of trees, time, that bring you to dreams or the bluejay perched in its berth awaiting nightfall?
It must be the far off laughter of children that have not yet seen horrors of mankind, dear time, that help you ease your eyes each eve.
I suspect you have never slept, time, my precious time. You are an infinite reminder of life and death, simultaneous.

Springtime sunshowers danced as diamonds upon her tufted down, the sparrow as she perched, shooting sunrays upon blades of grass, electric.
Oh, Mother Earth, I kneel upon you now, knees muddied, head bowed in reverence for life you freely give, the grass, she never complains.
Even when the cold harsh breath of winter captures her in a frozen season of time, her voice twills as that of the sparrow.
Even when night wraps her embrace & the sun shines harsh, the grass is silent upon the coming & going of a new day.
Yet it is in such exchange, light meeting dark, where a new soul is born becoming a bright star.
The place where an old soul is crowned by a most mighty hand becoming a constellation, a lamp post for those that are weary.
An exchange of energy, a freedom the living ache for, like flight, the sparrow, she carries our wishes upon the wind.
Those same wishes yet heard again but one must listen close to the song of the sparrow.

We are different and we express differently and we are free to do that! That’s why it’s art