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What but This

poetic thoughts

· poetry

What is love but the free giving of oneself for another; the reverence of another's being. What am I and what are you but the collision of a million particles and light waves in the ocean of eternal beauty, of collostal stars and whispering oaks, all by the paintbrush of God. We are placed into this world of mystery with all the potential of a redwood tree seed, buried deep are we in the dark earth, the vessel of nutrients for our growth; with rain storms and mighty winds and beaming sunlight and the sturdy roots of others to hold onto, we grow, tall, and wild, and mighty. When my days are few and my hourglass empty, will I know I lived with all gumption, vulnerability and courage? For what is life without God but an empty shell wasting in the shadow of purposelessness, and what are we without God but an empty pail longing to be filled, and what is life but to love and be loved endlessly, and what is purpose but to know that this is truth. Life is but an limitless and eternal miracle, a splash of color on the canvas of the cosmos, hurdling through time, and oh so close to heaven.

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