What shall it profit a man…to spend all his days at home…feeding the young?
Living in a silver gilded castle.
Days of rest long gone.
Weary, tired, loss of youth.
Never listening to the heart’s cry
To break out into the beyond.
Where is it?
Does it exist?
Is it found somewhere between the torn pages of withered books?
Is it purely fantasy?
The sound of piano keys and flutes from a distance.
A shofar…calling out into the wilderness.
Will the dreams die? To pursue the lost.
To feed the hungry. To welcome a weary traveler.
A mission lies out there somewhere. Where is somewhere?
Does it lay beyond the non-existent mountains?...of flat land and valleys.
Is it heard in the voice of a baby’s cry, awakening one in the midst of the dawn?
Has it gone before us with all the saints?
The roll call being taken. Their very names piercing our soul of long forgotten memories.
The contours of the face. The touch of the skin. The sound of laughter.
Must we take the road of the labyrinth only to find ourselves trapped in the spirituality of all that ever was?
And yet reality faces us each day.
Whether we want to admit it or not.
The feel of the autumn winds.
The sounds of children playing in the streets.
A vacuum humming not one of an empty soul but the grit the dust, the very being of what makes life.
What brings life.
Ashes to ashes.
Dust to dust.
From dust we emerged into this planet of nothingness which became something within the very first rays of the morn…until the setting of the glimmer of the moon.
(I have decided to repost my original blog writing...especially for my newer followers...hence this was the piece which gave me inspiration for the name of my blog)