It was the ruins. It had always been the ruins, curving his light, causing the blur….the whirl in his spirit.
He knew he was more though. Perhaps he did have an existence after all.
For him woodland trails were more than a healer, he wandered through half praying, because the woods were his teacher.
Waterfalls spoke, and God sent angels that could sense his scar tissue, providing a balm. He was different somehow.
Sprinkles from heaven began the new, and he was able to see the word structure clearly.
Within the wind and the sun he discovered lines. And poetry….came to live.
Poetry and Image © Copyright 2019, ancient skies