Rooted And Blessed In My Exposure

So many young lives I have been a Nightingale unto, nursing wicked choices  
Trying to find that beautiful spark in the dark, somewhat opened eyes, bathed in stone hearts, give rises to maddening voices              
Changed in the matter of moments with treating the elements of a torn soul
In the cradle of time my pouring streams never cease its universal flow
It patrols on within the depths by my Creator, blessed on the current where it softly consoles
Regrets confessed from mouths, praying, hoping, humanity needing to be reassured lifespan will get better at any cost    
The passage of my Pineal Gland sees life and the skeletal appearance of failing breaths          
Psalms verse twenty-three read in the declining hours to give a weary spirit external rest            
The same messages upon the dowry of our heads, yet a different sanctuary of time              
Plagues, famine, debauchery rules churches’ mind              
                
There is no peace no matter where you go              
As sure as the tornado destroys, and the water floods no matter where the ravines may go          
This is God’s land, no matter the technology found by the inventive hands of man              
One breeze, torrential rains              
At that interval, you bear witness our lives are all the same              
We all have emotions to feel and compassion to lend when we feel pain              
Then if so, why isn’t color blindness the name of life’s game              
                
As a healer, I hear those calls when hearts are lying in wait, I can never measure, or give you the sight of death  
When the body has given its all and it now only wants to return to dust, to be reborn unto its divine home for external rest  
The word terminally ill will never fit the bill, it is more a celebration of a beautiful sunrise and sunset  
Energy infusion at best, universal recycling, tears shedding in remembrance and emotions felt          
 
Worshipping society's sacred temples, speaking your language, your religion is my religion, your beliefs are my reliance to fit the cause of the bill, but still              
Does the mind of others ever get fatigue in doing right              
Holding on to the last ounce of faith when devoid of human nature to give into the heathens that romances the night                      
I bow in humbleness unto you, as I am, and through me I will always feel the perpetual devotion of Him                
Given unto power to lasso the magnifications of creature comforts which will never win                    
 
To civilization without, sees it’s downfall without an end                    
Falsehood love in beauty, money, spiritual love tossed in the wind                        
Vanity lovers of self, money, consorting in the dark on the altar with Jinns                    
I have hurtled them all, through the beginning of time, to council the                    
mentally to make the loins of men lust and the sacred divinity of women                    
adhere to enticement to the temptation of its sin                    
The first, the last, and the fallen ones on earth, the population follows the hidden horns to deceive                    
My Ankh I shield to the powers to be                    
                    
The truth it seeps to give credence between you and me                    
What we stand for, when we ask for more, it makes us, or it breaks us                    
When the blood of our veins in sickness only pours              
We cry out in the last hour to be spiritually forgiven              
In the perfection of health, debauchery, arrogance is the catalyst when we are immorally driven                    
No one is better than each other                  
When we look in the mirror our reflective image is the only one who hovers                    
No other face from another mother                
Vanity is the tool of the Devil's invention, making us self-lovers                  
                    
I remain docile in my own melanin skin                    
This old world seems at times no hope, no glory, truth of the matter to self is where we all begin              
The good book of fables from the Book of Genesis to the Book of Revelations                    
Once out the cocoon of the womb it’s the end we are wandering sheep in guidance from the constellations                    
My own voice, my own choice                
In this day and age, no trails to follow, but my own footsteps                    
It eliminates the time when trying to measure up when no one is ever                    
considered in life to the best  
By the trials, tribulations, or by life’s tests                    
We are all one whisper from a labored breath              
                
Tears in remembrance of our presence thy hollow be thy name is all that's left                    
Pine boxes, cremations, our Judgment Day comes next              
Never fear the unknown                
Live your life as a melody of your own beautiful song              
Energy never dies, our spiritual vessel ascends to be atoned              
Déjà vu will welcome you to advise you your spirit once roamed free              
Those three phrases of life that is ordained for you and for me                    
                    
Soulful healer, spiritual fighter, blessed lineage of French Moorish Queens                    
Let awoken minds speak of what blinded eyes have not yet seen                    
In the realm of spiritual evolution and the parables of the afterlife we walk in                    
Every night in the subconscious of our dreams                    
Awaken to the coldness of opened eyes never to reclaim what the intellect has seen                
Is it atheist or blasphemy once off the nourishing and enlightening nipple we are weaned                                
The afterbirth, the last sacramental rites of passage before our Creator separates His presence from thy will shall be done                    
The first cry of life to a hellish Kingdom come                    
Everyone is wrong, life is measured by the greater good, better choices, yet, overruled by wicked deeds riding on pale horses                    
We are down here in in the belly of the beast                    
By His divine oath, His word, I am rooted and blessed in my exposure to stand on my feet
Into your mind, consecrated words, will always reach, my mission is to softly teach
I listen as Mother Nature and her sources of survival, air, water, earth, fire to mankind by observation is to preach
 
 
Shalom