There was a time when I could count the Omers, say la Shana tova, & rosh hashana, but then my time came and there was non to count with me.
I was expectant of you. Knowing it was time, but I had no clue what it was time for. And for that I’m truly sorry.
It’s the beginning of days, the beginning of freedom, perhaps the beginning of a new hope. A hope only you and I know about.
I spoke with new tongues. It wasn’t even Pentecost. At least I’m not sure it was, because I ended up calling it necromancy.
How does one speak with the voice of the dead? Perhaps that’s why Yeshua said they’re not dead. For He’s not the God of the dead, but the God of the living
A new fear, a new dread, a new hope, and a new voice. Like a rushing river, a million voices stilled by the need to be what I perceive whole again. Yet waiting for you to confirm your word. Because I know insanity is sanity, and nothing is truly as it is.
Now I speak in phrases only you and I know about. Hoping you’ll tell me I didn’t miss you. That I didn’t trade you for something else, and you’re still here. Just a lot more closer, and a lot more comfy.
I guess this is my story. The story of us. 1 more prophet.