A Light
From the Darkness
Rises a Light
Standing strong
Pure and Holy
The Shadows flee
Terror in their eyes
For this one cannot be chained
From the Darkness
Rises a Light
Standing strong
Pure and Holy
The Shadows flee
Terror in their eyes
For this one cannot be chained
Hidden in the trees,
Deep beneath the sun,
A glint of silver in the leaves
Hints that summer's done.
The glint soon grows to silver drops
That drain out of the sky
Like little pieces of the sun
That fall until it dies.
And with the sun, so goes the rain,
And even goes the dew.
They're all replaced by cotton-balls
That float down from the moon.
The sky is dark in wintertime
Without the sun or moon.
And even treetops shake with fear
And hope the cold ends soon.
Part Ⅲ
“One does not cross their legs, ever,” Mrs. Green reprimands Charlotte with an irritated air of one who has sat too long in one attitude.
Charlotte uncrosses her legs, and instead crosses her ankles with an irritable sigh. Her cotton stockings feel tight and restricting as both women wait as patiently as possible. “Mama, when shall Mr. Pearson arrive?”
“Whenever he arrives,” Mrs. Green says as patiently as she capably can.
There he, there he goes flitting 'cross the sky red, bold-winged and beautiful even cardinals die
What does the lone bird say to the man who cannot hear bird sits among the others singing but the song evades man's ears
Dare he try to make a wave his colors still the eyes faces press to glass panes firm even cardinals die
Reaching man is not a job bird's lost all gravity playing fair is no concern bird needs no legacy
And then beneath the oak tree lay a lone bird stilled of flight red, bold-winged and beautiful even cardinals die
Judging a Book By It's Cover.
Chapter IX The Rescue
{based on Ezekiel 16}
There once was a man, named Fredrick Fatface,
Who wore smelly tweed,
and a cuff of white lace,
and who never could find,
to his mother's despair,
a lovely thin wife,
who would brush his sad hair,
and sew him a coat,
and clean up his lace,
and make a good man
of poor Fredrick Fatface.
lived in
the countertops are a far cry from what most consider clean littered with a butter wrapper and slices of cheese and crackers potatoes dance in the microwave, sixteen seconds to go late-night chicken sizzles in the oven that has sown many a meal in its day THE HELP sits on the table cracked open, spine slumping forth to greet the striped tablecloth a kettle bursts with tea water; right now it's boiling for hot coca which she'll get to in a minute as soon as she finishes writing about what a kitchen looks like when it's lived in
funny how it snowed