I Will Plug You Back in my Love

I've asked You to make me a microphone before and You did. You took my vocal cords and connected them to Yours and I sang the fervent outcry of Your heart. I sang about your jealous love and righteousness; about your relentless pursuit after Your inheritance. About the deep groan You made the day True love died because You knew You could have us back. I was screaming then and it was Your song being heard. It was all together beautiful and my heart burned for You to speak more, to speak constantly. My voice, it was Yours and in that I found my existence. The more song sung, the more I came into being. I stood up and proclaimed. My volume increased and my sounds were Your melodious truths. I knew You and therefore my voice didn't shake—I was not shaken.

I was Your microphone and my voice, it belonged to You. And I sang Your hearts yearnings. I sang, and sang—until I didn't. Until one day I stopped asking for You to make me Your microphone. I took it back. Stole it actually, and I gave it to the meaningless sounds of the World. Your sweet lovesickness no longer heard from my lips. My voice, it silenced, and my song sang no more. Instead I was filled with noise, but it wasn't from You, just white noise. It consumed me until I could hear no other sound. Until all I became was the senseless noise, an internal dying groan. The songs— they were foreign to me. I was running, holding my microphone to the passerbys, the debt collectors, the fortune and fame, to the ones that don't know me. I let them sing their own song and soon it became my own. Soon my once unshaken sound was lost and so was I. 

But only You alone know me. I know that now.  I've known it for awhile and I'm sorry. But the noise was even too loud for my thoughts. I've stilled myself again and unplugged my microphone from that grave noise. It's gone now and it is quiet. I'm empty now. A good empty, a desperate one. The kind of empty that only You can fill—a fierce surrender. And I can hear Your whisper inside of me again; the faint sound of Your heartstrings. I will plug You back in my Love. I will sing and remember the sweet melodies that used to roar within. My sound, it belongs to You again. My lips, they sing Your name again. Your volume is on high and I am Your microphone once more. Sing, sing, and I will never cease to roar Your beauty. 

Gold Covered Bones

Warning: This post as a result of Biola assignment.

This generation has curated a society that has everything and yet has nothing. She is extravagant, a statue of gold. But on the inside decaying. Dead bones, gray ash blowing in the wind—nothing. We are born for something. But she said no to true meaning. She saw diamonds, mansions, shiny phones and yachts and chased after bills attached to the tails of decadent lovers. She was king and queens, and yet the kingdom was a pit of empty bottles of booze, the reminisce of strangers chase for freedom, the once boisterous cheers hushed in the empty space. What were the strangers names? No one knows. Who did this society meet? No one. Was it fun? The most. Strangers, little robots walking throughout ivory walkways, perfectly groomed bushes in chase of wild fun. No roots, no connection. The green bills fly and the strangers take. They transform them to life purpose. Materials. So many materials. Greed grows, and so does waste. The strangers leave and reenter,  eyes searching for the Gold, the Jewels, the myriad of New—an endless cycle. What were their names? Still don't know. The sun sets and rises over again. The weather changes. The strangers still show, but the diamonds sit on wrinkled fingers, ivory cloth lays over stretched, drooping skin. Movements are slower now. One step…then another step…but still towards the green candy, the green light. Until one day the chase stops, the decadence decays, silence falls over the group of individual greed seekers. The green light becomes a small spot in the distance until it disappears, moving onwards. What is left is gold covered bones. Laying, waiting to be honored, to be remembered. Heavy blank stones waiting to be engraved. What were their names again? I don’t remember. Thousands of blank stones atop stilled bones and rusted metal sit in darkness of a greenless lit abyss.