Thoughts bounce around my cortex like
toddler on trampoline--unable to land with
balance, posture, calm, or cool.
There is a collection of thoughts that force pen and phone
and napkin into my palms,
call it Selah,
call it possession,
because they are not mine,
if they were, I would not be this satisfied just being
in their presence.
They are God's,
they burn through me
like heat applied to a swelling pride,
like beast born humble with eyes of light
that can see, if for just a second, the ocean in the drop,
the cosmos in the spark.
Sometimes my thoughts splinter and stab my step
like sabotage spoken by a serpent in the silence
or a surround sound setup of static noise stoning my inner child
and suffocate the rhythms that only rise in the stillness, the quiet,
my spirit whispers the handiwork of a soft-spoken hacker
with a voice like thunder,
synapses sing songs of praise the millisecond before
the Spirit with an opinion
and a purpose sprinkled through space,
seasoning each new tick like a silent gift to a body stale from sin and stiff
to claim real estate
for temple matters.
What I'm saying is
I am but a messenger
with skin like ebony & gold cherubims,
a tongue on fire,
and eyes that peek outside the matrix.