Radiant colors swirl ahead and behind crystal-like boardwalks
That reflect nothing around rainbows and emerald seas.
Mild flashings under deep rumblings from between
Chambered rounds of faith lumbering in thunderous voices
Too loud to be heard.
The more I think I know the face of the One who made me
The more I know I think wrong things about most of what makes me
Think more of the things that wrongly made me
Think of them in the first place.
The heart is deceitful above all things, and desperately wicked. . . I think with flawed thoughts. . . yet I think often about the One Who Made Me.
Like Ostrakinos, I am fragile . . . easily broken . . . a jar of clay.
Yet, I am treasured . . . eternal . . . full of joy.
May the majority of my thoughts be turned towards the Only One who is Worthy of my thinking.