As quickly as it began, it ended and I left the garden alone. The rain never ceased in it's falling and yet I forged through the night with single footsteps. Had I found my ruin? Was what I experienced eternally unatainnable? The mud sludged in between my toes and drew me in to her misery as each footstep became harder and harder to leave.

J.M. Prater

The night shall not hold me. She shall not take prisoner my spirit and then bargain with it for my soul. I have known the streets of want, the stockpiles of oppression. Now, as I sit in freedom, I refuse to look back at that which has kept me from existence.

I was not my own you see, I was not free to bear the weight of creation. Instead, in its place I had desire, want and sloth. Now, at the right hand of God I will bear witness to his wrath upon that of which he made and condemned.

It wanted my soul, it wanted that very blood of my being. I was fooled and did not see as I let myself be led blindly through a tunnel that promised the divine but gave me entrails. I watched it all happened and studied myself as I unravelled into nothingness at the contempt of my own divinity.

But I awoke, I awoke and the ground moved at my every step as to show the wonder of my creator and the joyful pain of his righteousness. I will not look back, I will not look back. The mystery and depths of the water beckon me to discover how deep she goes. I will not look back, I will not look back.

J.M. Prater

And the power and the might of all things held their breath on that night when the earth stood still on her axis. His name was called out from the mouths of rocks. They split open in reverence of Him and in defiance of his enemies.

This man was brought through wood and fire, through womb and darkness to end as such that a flower would dare not open. His power new no bounds, his face the brightest of whites and yet he dimmed and left righteousness for sorrow. I knew him, a glimpse of almighty, a blanket for all, I knew him.

But he rose, with the power bestowed, he rose unto this earth. It trembled and it moved, it cried and it raged and he rose still. The hand of his father struck the skies and the guilty were buried in their trangression. His power moved the stars and his love calmed his rage. He moved through the mountains and the entrance rolled and freed him. The fields parted, the river sang for this Yeshua, this Christ, this king of earth. His right hand was righteousness and his voice was love. His footsteps were anger and he smote he who dwells within.

The power of the father knew the depth of the wind, and it shook the foundations of all creation. He rose, he rose and walked and made known his intentions. He was the word, one cannot go against the word of God.

J.M. Prater

I opened the gate, we walked in. The area was wooded, silent, secret. The rain dripped through the tops of the trees and down on our heads. The cars zoomed by outside the gate. We were shielded by the plants and shrubs that aligned the inside of the white fence.

I stared at Alex, I had seen his eyes before, every day. They were my eyes, a reflection of a star field of memory, emotion, longing and joy. I stared into his eyes, I knew him as I knew myself. For the first time that reflection was beautiful. I was not myself, rather, this was the second of a whole. I took his face in my hands and thanked God for him.

Where had he been all of my life? Where had this precious soul been wandering without me? We kissed forever while standing on a blanket of water-drenched grass and leaves. I was his, and he was mine, never before but always after. That banner was a word, I wanted to utter but waited to speak.

This man, this Alex, this fragile stone. I had known him always but never before that night. He pushed me up against the wall and consumed me. Electricity and his face of joy. At long last here we were, our destined paths intertwining. I sit here now, the words on the tips of these fingers, I know him still, I want him now. My body is his, and my heart, no longer mine.

The wooded area shielded us for an hour or more. Time remained in the street we left it in. All was still in that evening hour. His name is on my tongue even now, his smile a riddle in my pocket.

My life before me, my life before me.

J.M. Prater