Moulding the Children of Time

Molding The Children of Time… An igneous, metamorphic warmth Singed my being leaving My sable body in a convulsive state. What touch was this that I had Never known and will never Know again? Shall I forever be a transient Traveling this silicon path of time? Will the turbulent tides of the lives I lived ever end their to and fro search? The stone cold reality meanders Through opaque minds whose human roots Have been exposed and sheared by the volcanic Wash that continues to bleach away true sown seeds. Yet, like Job, God demands that I too, Be put to the test that they must and will succeed As we dig out the destinies that the soil of time will bear. The seeding journey continues. Yes, the harvest remains plentiful; And the reapers remain few.