My creative synapses
will make sense to me
someday. They will not
sputter in chaotic release,
release, yes, but that utterance
of halting expression which I must tame and
strengthen to the core will
one day flow in order.
Ideas that I must now systematize
and pull and push into place,
stuffing into shape,
sand until the jagged edges shine.
And then, only then does it become
a faint imagine in a dark room.
When the curse is lifted
and my body is weightless
without sin and death, my pathways
of praise will shoot
from once-crooked creative synapses made
straight. Every offering will be an
arrow of lightening speeding back
to the Creation king, whose name I
know, and whose throne
is the only
place of interest in the universe.
©Bonnie Saul Wilks
May 17, 2014