Tipping Season

by Edward Taylor III

I pour my dreams into the soul of the ink; pen caresses paper & I sink into timeless space, my mind blinks still photo’s link the past to present with future glimpses, creating His-story.

Mingled in this caldron of emotion are vision’s of an appointed time, where grace imparted faith tips the scales like added weights;

Drip…

Drop…

Drip…

Drops sprinkle my face, like fresh rain to a wilting rose, now glowing with expectation, My eye’s excite at the tilting of vessel’s containing favors fresh milk, my arms extend to receive a long-awaited embrace, my dry mouth longing for the taste of life, the taste light.

Stream’s begin to flow from the overhead container this begins the division between lack & fulfilment with perfection being the remainder; no reminding residue of the sin conscious mind – clear of any variableness of shadow.

That old man of the flesh has gasped his last breath in sins death. I begin to live, boasting the sovereign power of my king, I stand under his downpour thirsty no more…