A dream has shown a path yet unknown. The beginning is marked with a sense of anticipation of what is yet to be. A broad panorama with a moon in the center will change with the days sun and the direction we walk.
The dream began eons ago when we were one in the heavens. Our energies mingled together. For centuries we merged. Only to be torn asunder. Sent to hell on earth to spend our lives searching for each other, the missing half of souls.
Honestly, I don't see God that way either. I was working on two other writes and took a break and came here. What you see above is kinda a merge I guess of some themes from the other two that just came out as I whipped that off here. If we are speaking of God, I have to say I see nothing but mercy and love else how would he continue to be with us mortals? Sorry, getting kinda religous toned here.
The interesting thing is that if he were only those things then he couldn't be just and perfect. While I don't see god as sadistic I actually understood the perspective of the observations you made anyhow. Sometimes trying to balance the justice that has a tendency of creating terrible things as natural consequences of men's actions that God doesn't obstruct, against the mercy that give love and life to all things and give life is a contradiction that has caused more then just you to pause and wonder even if you came to those observations by accident.
i want to write about happy polka dots where goats nibble on rocky hillsides
instead i dream of cities being blown up in the distance i follow the line of pickup trucks loaded with deer rifles and shotguns i can survive - at least for the few minutes it takes for my dream to run its course
sitting in a cement walled facility, knees pulled into my chest, i sing "and the rockets red glare, the bombs bursting in air"
when i wake, the first light of day is streaking hazily into my room i think of happy polka dots
The dream, yet why at remembrance, should I burn? T'was a dream of mirage and cannot return. But was she, too, a spirit, the waif who flew by, And breathed in my bed, while she hid from mine eye? Was she, too, a vision, just chancing to view, Then lifted with the sunrise, or mingled in dew? Oh! should it seem so,--Oh! should that her eye, Had been but a star-gleam that dropped from the sky, And her voice that was framed of falsetto thrill, Had been but the Lark, that sang then was still!
A sleeping did her spirit feel; She had no human cares: She seemed a thing not so real With naught of earthly wares. She neither hears nor sees, Resting now under green embrace, With wings, and leaves, and breeze; Sleep well, wee fairy of dancing grace.
Wake up my rotted soul and tell the new day to me; behooved, sorry-struck, immured in wall of sensual sleep. Slowly rise and blink the mist from your eye and show your red secrets, your nightly sighs to the world of wonder and me. Dreams to live to become real when you awaken when morning pronounces truce over the night meeting day in the dragon's bed. Cry out your innocence when you sigh backward into the amorous arm of her sea as dead. Wake my rotted soul, look down on the serpent that struck men from the loft of vanity. Burn in my world sad-struck, beloved, burn in my world the sensual sleep and tell the new day to me.