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Merely Muse
by Natasha Peterson The seventy-five year old frame rattled the tiny walls of a farm house as the wind howled its melancholy chorus across the meadows. The eve of night still young, maturing rapidly to it's full, dark potential. The last rays of orange hued light dancing upon the bare stocks teasing to come back, cast a glimmer of surety for the coming new day- what seemed to be a lifetime away. If any brave soul dared to exist at such a time, they would wonder at the eerie silent transformation, conveyed at the befalling of such raw countryside. How could something so dazzling to the eye which stirs within an emotional response far deeper and more dangerous than man had ever known or understood, be at the same time, deathly fatal? Could it be...could it be the human race was not mechanically engineered to behold such rapturous revelation? Could it be, the mortal man was but a minuscule and finite part of a world beyond comprehension? Who were we, intricately designed lumps of clay, to navigate a cosmic world order as if we were the original creators of such wonders? As if we held the immeasurable capacity to hold within our palms the splendor of radiant white light or cast the foreboding darkness of night where we please? How could we, as ornately woven particles of dust, not master the art of peering through each pair of lamps our very own mirrors beheld, straight to the rotten core of our self-centered and vainly conceited existence? How is it we were unable? For the very reason that we, intrinsically valuable structures of art, could not and pridefully would not gaze beyond our own being, our own space of living, our own slot of time amidst the never ending cycle of monotonously feeble, mortal life. There was a tainted red veil woven as thick as a lifetime of guilt could endure, obstructing the view of a virtuous life among the Morning Star. This crimson cloth was responsible for the rise and fall of countless perverted souls. It was a weapon the mortal race knew how to wield corruptly. There were those who never let it go, forfeiting their joy, doomed by their actions to rot for far longer than forever, always conscious of the other side. Yet, there was a remnant, the few who ripped the heavy, burdensome veil and embraced their true purpose. They were adopted to their full stature as heirs to the Kingdom. The Light of the World enveloped His flock with a grip of ageless love. Dark shapes flow in response to the music of the somber breeze, far above the realm of passing breath. An old farm house, the only body left-foolhardy enough-to stand against the game of time, shaking in the distance as it stands to remind of mans incessant, stubborn pride to fight the odds of destined fate. Enjoy the reading, if you have any questions please send me a message and I'll be glad to respond with an answer! Article Source: http://www.faithwriters.com |