I want to write beautiful things to my God. My heart's tied by the agenda of time. It flexes, stretches, strains, and drains every beat towards the yearning: to pour every attention in creating what my Father will love, simply because I'm love struck in making it for Him.
I've seen such a pale reflection of Him in some, and my spirit is frenzied with unimpeded joy, such ravenous excitement that my longings are increased to ten time longer. To even catch a glimpse of the beauty within, between the wind and the air, momentarily bare from the concealment painted on by the world. My heart raptures, thrusts, burns, pounds through every layer without fear, but utterly confident in the Love that wrote such love to know my heart intricately, intimately, to it's deepest core, hidden almost from the heart itself.
Oh true God! Won't you endure in my heart to carry me over the time you have set before me. In such weakness I travel, shelled by the world at all angles. The horrifying, chaotic noise abuses my spirit and I lose sight of your goodness. I fall victimized and abused yielding to masters that must forget hearts exist, for their brains have been trained to exchange truth for lies. My heart is wrung, Lord. My heart is wrung.
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