Life of a Queen (Dear Maya Part II)

(Dear Maya Part I)

**

Dear Maya,

Your passing hasn’t become any easier.

Sometimes your expired life arises inside my mind and I feel deeply inclined to cry.

But I am working on moving past that. Not to forget you, but to blossom from you.

You are the butterfly who discovered angel wings mid-flight… The ray of glory from which the celestial beings receive their cue… You are the irreplaceable imprint of God’s thumbprint upon the DNA of humanity. Grandma Angelou, you are truly what it means to be inspiration.

I know we are not truly related, but Grandma is what you are to me.

I slipped and fell into deep ravines, and found out I had wolves at my back instead of sheep. I’m a lion by nature, so I bristle by trade, but true royalty doesn’t obliterate people, it pulls them back from the grave!

Oh what a friend we have… in Jesus.

Grandma Angelou I’m beginning to understand. Like the legendary rose in the concrete, I am beginning to grow. Like the orchard in a palace courtyard during spring, I am beginning… to flourish.

Your hand is upon my back.
Your voice giving shape to my throat.
Your heart teaching mine a new beat.

And your love… your love IS.

And I am a part of it.

Thank you…
I love you…
I am sad we never got to meet…
But grateful that we will.

Happy Birthday Grandma Angelou. ūüôā

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The Great Poet

Who can still the charming tongue of a Don Juan?  Who can take his lyrical elegance and spin it into meaningless nothingness?

No one.

Men scoff.  Ladies swoon.  Empires are built upon the pile of broken hearts left in his wake- love becomes a sickly addiction under his rule.  He is- The Great Poet.

He is masterful word use personified. ¬†Surpassed only by God in his verbal ability to create- God crafted amazing from the absence of absence, using only Himself in the midst of less than nothing… The Great Poet then took up his pen where the Good Lord ended. ¬†Once the wheels of creation were formed, The Great Poet spun those wheels into cupid tipped aeroplanes.

Who can still the charming tongue of a Don Juan?  Who can take his lyrical elegance and spin it into meaningless nothingness?

No one.

He retired himself– sentenced his own soul to his own grave. ¬†There is something mesmerizingly sober about cleaning the blood of a still pumping heart off of your sleeve… It makes you question yourself. ¬†Gives you penitence to ponder that, even in the unlimited world of words, there might be some greater thing. ¬†Something worth going after. ¬†Something more valuable than exulting in the sheer joy born of fashioning heat seeking love comets for the searching hearts.

There is more to the life experience than deathly impact.

And thus The Great Poet resolved not to¬†be. ¬†His final words of love influence in this world were sacrificial… Willing to die to a love he yet longed for that he may not destroy countless innocents in their search for it. ¬†The Great Poet has no equal- no verbal match with his poignant lexical personas that tickle tongues and entice hearts… There is no opposing match who cannot be swayed by him- thereby dissuading him from genuine pursuit.

For the first time in all of history…¬†Silence¬†deeply abode in The Great Poet’s mouth… Resistant to charming provocations, unimpressed with the impressive… Waiting… Or rather- his heart was. ¬†He had moved on, but his¬†heart… His heart retained a secret hope…

Then one day a bell rang.

It was in the last rays of a gilded sunset haze… The brush strokes dipping into nature’s sprawling assortment of enchanting pigments, and beautifully tainting the pure gold of the darkening air…

The rings raced back before their appointed time to announce the sunrise.

The Great Poet stirred. ¬†Remaining speechless less he influence reality with the forceful power of his potent love words, he watched as Miracle took hold of his body. ¬†Raised him up out the coffin, dusted him off and, promised him forever tones when the sounding bell stopped. ¬†Still yet speechless he let Miracle take his hand, and slip it into another one. ¬†Into a softer, more feminine grip…

And that’s when the panic hit, but before The Great Poet could let a fearful word slip off lips Miracle spoke again. ¬†“What has been- is no more. ¬†The man that died is still dead- you are altogether new. ¬†And that is why she is here… Exquisitely crafted for extraordinary newness… beyond your word brilliance, yet brilliantly attuned to it. ¬†She can handle it- you can do this.”

And then- in perhaps the GREATEST act of faith in his entire life- The Great Poet believed in himself.

Who can still the charming tongue of a Don Juan?  Who can take his lyrical elegance and spin it into meaningless nothingness?

No one.

Not even The Great Poet himself… which is why he ended that chapter… and started being himself.

For truth… for love… for God… for¬†her.

Ever lyrically matchless, unrivaled in loving passions, and altogether the acme echelon of a class all his own- salute when you see him, and bow deeply when you see her.

All hail-

The Great Poet.