MontyCaldwell

Times change; but passion goes on;
trashing my pen and my quill;
my typewriter has long since gone;
and my computer desires my will.

Spellcheck is how the demons began;
as though, spelling’s their call;
I wish to finish my thoughts, if I can;
but the computer thinks for

How can we be so far apart;
from the footsteps we vow to follow?
He has, within, a love filled heart;
we have a pump that is hollow.

He can forgive the vilest sin;
we always dwell on that sinner.
He will allow them to live again;
in forgiveness, we’

Every artist paints for a reason;
for each has a message to convey;
and writers, too, have their season;
when their Master wants his say.

The creator behind each artist’s obsession,
doesn’t hold the brush or a quill;
the Master is sharing a personal expression;
conveying his love

With destiny’s time, we’re not in tune;
for we often hear some people say,
“He’s left this life, far too soon;
because they wished he could stay.

If my life is just marking time;
without any purpose or goal;
if I have no goal, I call mine;

Love’s message is hidden in the thought;
but hate is often the delivery vehicle.
Love describes the entirety that ought;
but hate is delivered by the people.

What can transform the message of Love;
whispered to all, by the Master;
filtered down from the heavens above;
that hate transforms

I’m creating reality with each step I take;
life’s projector is always, on going;
from my successes and every mistake;
my soul’s energy keeps on growing.

I am the book of life on the shelf;
to the energies of Light, refracting;
living the pages, I’m writing

Home is where the heart is found;
at least that’s what they tell;
that’s not oft where we’re bound;
and not the place we dwell.

Our physical body longs for home;
but that’s not all we are;
the energy soul longs to roam;
and travels wide