These blades,
Guillotine to slice flesh
From bone, shred all semblance of comfort.
This rack,
Gears ground like teeth on edge,
Stretch faith beyond breaking.
Suffering gouges, disembowels,
Carves furrows upon her aching heart,
Divides the sheep and the goats
Into messy eviscerated piles.
The Sower scatters – dignified, purposeful.
Seeds cling with new tenacity
To scars, places where faith
That bleeds replaces stone.
They fall into gaping wounds,
Freshly ploughed soil
Where germination reigns.
Golden grains, a holy harvest
hovering on fruitful lips;
words are pollen, rich with meaning,
pregnant with potential scripts
.
that sow within a listening soul
a seed of hope – embryo
which, when implanted in a heart
take root, sprout,and start to grow.
.
If unspoken, pollen withers,
loses ground, and starts to die;
if too forceful, it will spatter,
staining as it whizzes by.
.
If applied as God intended,
spread by gentle breeze or art –
pollen counts, and reproduces
life and health and growth by heart.
Meanwhile, Melody Muses... 