The distant futures are under our heels.
The twirling spike picks at our sutures.
Round in infinity, helpless for the cause,
the desk of inability handed down,
Becomes historic.
The righteous path is a narrow train-
acommodation and timely travel.
Chipping gravel at a charitable cause,
a throng of praise, electrification,
humming the tracks.
Uncomprehensible, dodging our gaze
of scientific mind indefensible.
Richness burns the light on our heels,
dropping to tap in sync with my prayer-
Inheritance.
The distant futures are under our heels.
Tesla’s tap’s crumbling our measures.
Drawing points on infinity, defining our time
to praise on trains on tracks,
“Glory to the Most High”
This is the first poem I’ve written in months- it’s about man’s status in relation to God. The image of the ‘twirling spike’ is something that’s been in my head for a couple years, this isn’t the first time I’ve used it. I guess it represents something of the personal baggage that we accumulate, and willingly.
The ‘tapping’ is another way of relating our the idea of human momentum- in direct opposition to the ‘now word’ of God- which is His plan- The Kingdom.