He comes in the clouds

Church is poetry. Poetry is life. A life well lived.

the ways of the world
chaos turned to love,
spoon feeding news to
naive souls who dream
with a bag pulled over their heads.

they suffocate
not, tubes of air
forced into their lungs
a dreamy morphine mix
of lies and deceit.

Yes, the world is high
blinded by counterfeit
love and peace
clouding a soil of hate
that points to a million’s fate.

She understood life
burdened by sorrow,
a blessed rising cloud
peace to please her soul
of a discerning light.

(I wrote my piece for tomorrow, knowing I would be enjoying a much needed day away with my husband and daughter. Modern life is hectic and when I can find space to spend time at the Lake Michigan Dunes, I go! Have a blessed weekend!)

 

Poetry

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