choosing | Ruach 333, by Quilla

July 10.13

Your Choice…

The unwelcome fires burning in you

are secretly fed, with fuel

—your old dry broken sticks of thought,

innermost imaginings, cravings crackle

into words, actions

Your highest, holy will decides:

choose not to feed the fuel of thorns,

the raging fires die down.

So also, with the Godly fires:

feed them your favorite bouquets of dried flowers,

cherished folded letters, lost prayers,

forgotten words of praise, toss them all—

they burn warm colors of mercy flames,

the strong forgiving light of Love.

–Quilla

Slow waves of night ebb back, depart.

The sparkled darkness fades in blooms of eastern light.

Each of us stands apart and quite alone, before something alive

and moving, endless like the sea. We stand upon the crest

of long white dunes at dawn, a crimson sun, a blue sea-wind.

Every morning, we’re gifted anew, given a day—-an open canvas,

broad and tiny brushes, a wide palette of dried blood, yellow mud

and pale chalk—these strokes portray us, talk for us, they walk us

through our day. Our life itself unfolds our truest prayer.

I am the one who decides what shades I’ll use, or if I’ll let the others

abuse, or fool me, paint in my place, this empty life-scape

given just to me.

I choose the words of my very thoughts: which god I’ll kiss, and feed.

All else flows from that—what I need or don’t, ought and not.

Words fall from my mouth sweet loaves, or bitter stones.

Some poisoned part of me dies each day, swallowed by my risen Lord.

In turn, I eat his living words, like milk and wine, strong meat and bones.

My will becomes absolved by his: like howling night, by holy dawn.