Hello treasured friends! You can now subscribe to our podcast, where we will have weekly worship sessions, hosted by our treasured daughter April. We…Weekly Worship Podcast
The sun was beautiful this morning,
peeking from behind the clouds,
with a sweet smile.
I smiled too,
for a moment,
peeking from behind my personal clouds,
seeing the sunlight sitting far above,
speaking of better days on the way.
The sky is grey,
for the most part,
but bits of blue are peeking through.
The sun and I are smiling,
because the sky is shining,
showing me the eyes of my beloved,
and I am hopeful,
I sat alone,
sewing stories to my soul,
pink glitter at ease on my eyelids,
soft, pastel, peaceful pink,
you know it’s my favourite colour,
We watched a movie about madness,
in the middle of the night,
with the chocolates you got me for Valentine’s Day.
I was quite satisfied with the taste,
but still missed you on my lips,
you know that you can kiss me,
if you want to.
I just want to be your girl,
it isn’t much more complicated than that,
but sometimes, it feels like I’m on a path,
drenched in dark,
no light, no guide,
and my shoes are bombs,
but I just keep walking,
as I spark up a cigarette,
to see my way back to you better.
One of my psychics said your name this morning,
and I couldn’t breathe for a minute or so.
I just want to sew stanzas into my soul,
about the way you made summer seem to last forever,
kissing you in Greenwich Park,
deep inside my dreams,
keeping my lips soft,
with coconut scrub,
and romantic ambition,
for when the kiss eventually comes.
It’s all so unfortunate,
to come of age,
as a late bloomer in a forgotten destiny,
the lady of nothing but a dark eternity,
cycling through the same nightmares,
because you have all the imagination in the world,
but lack the ability to live in your pages.
At least my years had a little glamour,
because I was a fantasist,
and my tears have a little glamour,
because I wear the cheap mascara,
for the drama, when it runs, and runs,
right down my face,
when the world runs away from me,
and I’m alone in my garden,
bitter that the sun does not indicate any relief from the day I have been living, on and off for several months.
I haven’t slept beneath the Sunday sun with you for a while,
but every so often,
I slip into a scene,
in which I do.
I always wake up in a bittersweet mood,
when I’ve spent the night inside my mind,
inside of your arms (if it sounds complicated, that’s because it is complicated),
because while it’s nice to see you,
and to almost feel you,
I just spend the next day languishing in my longing,
writing songs that I’m too shy to show you (until Valentine’s Day, when it feels appropriate, and even necessary),
and spending far longer than is healthy,
staring at my favourite picture of you.
It just doesn’t do,
but it’s all I can do,
until the next Sunday comes,
not just any one, of course,
but one where we are asleep in your bed,
and your embrace is as real as the sun that sleeps above us.