Time and friends; the most popular items in my lost and found box.
I chose to be nothing but myself; a freedom that could not come without a heavy cost. 

Ironic as it may be; losses tend to come before gain, pleasure is often a reward for pain. And more often than not, we are driven past insane, before we arrive at truth. 
Every seed must first be buried before it bears fruit, and where nothing has ever died, nothing ever grew. 

Time and friends; tend to be as short term as they are long lasting. I chose to be nothing but myself, so I stick to my own script, and only play the roles that fit the mould, I’m casting. 
Ironic as it maybe; feeling lost, is a step on the path to being found. Rain may erode the ground, on its way to feed the seed, and pain, is everything that compels us to grow, into something free…

Lost at sea 

Lost at sea, where I can find myself;  

Soaking, in hope; tired, from riding the tides of life’s ocean. Floating, from coast to coast with nothing to boast of; bar the treasures of truth. Navigating my thoughts through, future mist, towards something new. Blue, when I look back on ships that sailed past. Lost, for all that’s here to see is my eerie reflection, drifting. I find myself sifting through ship wrecks left behind. Diving too deep, yet somehow washed up on freedoms shoreline… Im tired, and I’m lost, but I’m doing just fine… 


    The preacher begins to speak of peace, as the quire grows quiet. The sermon was yearning to learn, the demons were burning in the urns of those earning. 

The spirit however, did not desert the undeserving. Every soul within the temple could feel a tide turning, in a baptism of realism. Manifested true, through a catalogue of material cataclysms. Each eye saw the same Visions of the Schism.
The walls began to burn, unconcerned by who was what, or who wasn’t  with sin. The temple began combusting, like a furnace, yet not even a single Scream scratched the surface; 

The preacher was now looking increasingly nervous. Pushing his faith desperate to see the purpose, of the torture that he had used to torch the tortious…

Wealth had now become worthless; to all the snowy Saints in their burning churches. That now claimed to know of holy verses, yet could not recall their saviours birthplace; 
The quire so inspired that they sang through the fire, until the entire procession sought out a new professions. 
Like the holy smoke that filled their lungs and stained the air. They where there, yet everywhere. A heavy cross to bare, till they were near, their last breath…

A church full of New desciples that wrote divergent bibles, as they stifled, walking through the fiery shadow of death…