by Giuseppe Chiaramonte
Writing is my voice. Simplicity within a world filled with inconsistencies, continuously evolving with no end in sight. Walls erected by a man with no vision in the moment but aware of a future hope. Driving towards an ending that is already written yet cognizant of the choice that all possess. To change what is now and rewrite what had gone before is the ultimate force which I can attain. There is no mysticism just raw clarity as to the substance which compels a life to live. Reach out and touch what is already there as the words spill over the page engulfing the endless white emptiness. With great power I wield the written word to slay the foe. I dodge and parry with one well placed word simultaneously moving forward into battle, never retreating as the sentences overwhelm my adversary and consume the legions. Let it be known I will not be silent within my own body as I place one letter in front of the next igniting a signal to those who stand before me. Silent protest is a weak man’s voice in the wilderness of seven billion people. Where are the voices calling in the desert of humanity? I pray to stand in the valley with the force of will and led by a Spirit of love to look upward as a servant to those in need.
Writing is my voice. Shout in the ear of your neighbor with the weight of a mighty keystroke. Influence those with a sound opinion and the sword of truth. Break through the iron bars which so easily ensnare the endless communion which has been promised by the sacrifice and resurrection of the Messiah. Oh how the lamb has spilled His blood to cover all transgressions in order to bring His children back into relationship. Consider the path each person has taken to the promised land as provided by the one true King. Raise your voice to the heavens, search the depths of your soul in preparation for the hope of Jehovah-Yahweh.
Writing is my voice. Place the worn battered armor of the Host of Heavens on my body so that I may face whatever obstacle is placed in my dirt path. Hold the shield level so that no projectile or weapon may pass the defenses so freely given by my General-King. With training by way of blood stained knees and weathered hands I swing my double edged sword at any enemy in defiance of the guilt ridden nature that drags on my shackled ankles.