Journeyman father and apprentice husband, multiple assumptions can be made; daybreak's angle on this vein corpse that I call mine must shine some light on scars inflicted and received. Up from the East it comes - daily. Not missing a pulse on the Universal Clockmaker's own watch, watching others watch its precarious delay. The angles shooting upon soul's own geometry reminding each programmer that there might be a cliche - that rays promise all souls upon the Earth fragrant scents, fruit and vegetable, towering waterfalls and the like. Not only promise but deliver, without even a request, the bounty of easily trifled gifts to this vein corpse that I call mine. And in the aftermath's quiet rubble and ash, there I am, still alone if you don't count matter, waiting for a person to hear and understand the assumptions that I have made too promptly about myself. Journeyman father and apprentice husband, I wait patiently to hear the quiet, amber-glazed voice that once compelled me to religion, wait to inherit a vocal confirmation that I am here. But it does not come. Days promise those gifts, unrequited gifts for which many labour and toil. But it does not come. That which should be mine. Here is the rub. I am forever receiving, allowing matter to shift with the constant vibration of my thoughts. I pray in my hour of need, in my sleepless nights, in my dreams unfulfilled, calling for justice jolted directly to my bones. But then I hear it. Amber-glazed spirit syrup poured on my dry-ass pancakes. It is clear that my rejoicing and thanksgiving ought to, and surely will, trump any thoughts of grief that sleep in the vacant rooms of my mind, rooms that should not be entered. Rooms that should not be trifled with except to perform ritual magic and exorcism. Now, sands created eons ago rest for a while on my shower shoes. Sweat drips carefully around my brow, only occasionally hitting my sun-burnt eyes. And eons worth the weight I've paid now rest forever in my crisp and glorious future, the voice, amber-glazed in spirit syrup, now given without request. And in my darkest hour, the voice, the real voice speaks plainly to me as if to say, "You are and will always be a breath away from your next blessing, your next triumph, your next shower from tall waterfalls and the like. Not one blade of grass goes unnoticed, not hair on the scalp of your narcissitic dome." Yes - Journeymen fathers and apprentice husbands need to time to grow and they need you to let them grow. Cultivated by one who is greater than you. Not trimmed and pruned before they can reach God.
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