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.
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