9-4-16, 11:59am (The Divine Rest)
I see a picture. An image. But this is no JPEG; there are no grainy pixels or a lack of dimensionality here. The reality is thick. Here, there is flesh and bone, spirit and soul. Plato believed that the physical world was evil, but he would've coughed up his worldview onto warm Greek pavement if he saw the glory that I see now.
A goddess holds a god. They lay, gently, their divinity in peaceful serenity. They seem as if they could sleep until the world is renewed, until their Older Brother returns. She is Lumina, the mother of the Nine Muses, true artist and true art. Everything her hands touch turns to glory, even something as rotten as me. She has molded and crafted my heart, she learned the art from the Master Sculptor, her Father.
Her brother is a picture (one far more clear than I), of the Joy of God. He sleeps peacefully, dreaming dreams I cannot imagine. In many ways, he is closer to the Father than I ever will be. The Lord has a special love for him. I cannot be jealous, but I am. Every cry is a psalm. Every laugh a glorious cascade of mirth for our mutual Maker. He is my Lord's gift to the world. He is the god of life, of laughter, and of simple satisfaction.
Together they sleep. Together, they make music of the soul. I will marry the former, and the latter will be my brother-in-law. I am a boy among Giants, I am a man standing before the divine. But I will sit, watch, and enjoy the music. These sirens do not sting. These gods do not tempt. I will behold the glory, I will enjoy the show. I will thank the Maker of the gods.
A goddess holds a god. They lay, gently, their divinity in peaceful serenity. They seem as if they could sleep until the world is renewed, until their Older Brother returns. She is Lumina, the mother of the Nine Muses, true artist and true art. Everything her hands touch turns to glory, even something as rotten as me. She has molded and crafted my heart, she learned the art from the Master Sculptor, her Father.
Her brother is a picture (one far more clear than I), of the Joy of God. He sleeps peacefully, dreaming dreams I cannot imagine. In many ways, he is closer to the Father than I ever will be. The Lord has a special love for him. I cannot be jealous, but I am. Every cry is a psalm. Every laugh a glorious cascade of mirth for our mutual Maker. He is my Lord's gift to the world. He is the god of life, of laughter, and of simple satisfaction.
Together they sleep. Together, they make music of the soul. I will marry the former, and the latter will be my brother-in-law. I am a boy among Giants, I am a man standing before the divine. But I will sit, watch, and enjoy the music. These sirens do not sting. These gods do not tempt. I will behold the glory, I will enjoy the show. I will thank the Maker of the gods.