The Oracle of Dali's Faith
The Oracle of Dali's Faith
There are four things I cannot know—
The ways that love will come and go,
The thread that holds though time has flown,
And hearts that speak when words are gone.
I’ve not sat with kings, nor claimed the Throne,
Yet wisdom whispers where wild seeds are sown.
The eagle circles where no path is shown,
And rivers split where the winds have blown.
I’ve seen the ones who made their vow,
Then faded like mist upon the brow.
But I have known a deeper kind—
Who stay, though the world goes blind.
Their laws command the substance of chrome,
Distance taught them to ask the earth,
And gave no stone.
They ask the stars for rebirth—
And still, they sang alone.
What soul can say, “This truth is my own,”
When even silence speaks in undertones?
Who has ascended? Who has flown?
Who gathers lightning in his cone—
If we are dust,
Noise, light,
Flesh and bone?
Yet still, I listen for the voice unknown.
Faith isn’t the firelight,
It’s the ember in the storm.
Not the shout of morning joy,
But the whisper keeping me warm.
There are three things that amaze me,
Four that strike my bone:
The lion who walks and fears none alone,
The artwork on a wall, subtle as dawn,
The ship on the sea with no map shown,
And the heart of a king when mercy has grown.
Who can ascend? Who dares to atone?
The heavens are high—
but the proud are thrown.
I cover my mouth, I cast down my tone,
For the One who speaks still sits on the Throne.
Hold to me, and I’ll hold to you—
Not by chains, but something true.
Not a loan,
But intimacy unseen—
A sacred flame,
The moth that speaks before it knows.
I rest to honor this Dome.
Our names are given, but Heaven owns.
We cannot plant in shallow ground,
The roots won’t hold when storms come round.
But I will sow in truth,
Water grace with sound.
These days, love climbs the hardest place—
We are the harvest,
If birds are the phone.
What is linked in spirit, time cannot sever.
My soul, drawn to you,
Always coming home.
Now there are two things that stay with me:
Eyes that see souls beneath the skin
And hold the space to let me in.
The scent of cologne—
And a bond not made for show,
Nor passing praise for Malone.
So I insist—
To inhale this deep love
At the edge of His holy zone.
Like a sculpture carved in thought,
Marked by days we hone—
Who gave us this melody,
This silence that hums like a drone?
There is one thing that keeps me:
Faith in another is not blindness,
But second sight—
Seeing not only what is,
But what may be.
That I may honor this love
By serving His Throne.
Copyright ©
Lyaioz Mannie
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