The Mystery of Hope

From where in the creative conscious does the texture of night come?
The halls of Akasha or the land of Eden.
Have the miracles of  Babylon
been lost  forever?
The beauty of ISIS herself pales to a single star in our heaven.
Greek beauty in classical adornment seeks refinement from a silk cocoon.
Fearfully  made, and wonderfully displayed,
I gaze out into the night that surrounds me,
Listening to the 
boughs of evergreen swaying in the wind.
Even in the cosmos, a sound so lovely can be heard.

I am a miracle.

My beating heart tells a tale. The blood coursing through my veins is liquid fire, filled with power and dynasty.
We are the inheritors of a divine legacy, our image contains the secret.
I try to hang on to the great hope and trust of a man who walked on the water.
I know him as my savior and also as my hope and peace, 
the tale is told in our existence.
There is a future full of hope.