Our love is molded from the healing depths of the darkest soil,
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Overflowing amongst the golden nick time of possibilities.
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From the garden of creation we crawl,
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Fertile earth to abound in the seed,
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Bleed of grass to ancient trees,
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Shiny flower into the sweetest fruits of love.
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I can’t remember how we loved before,
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Before the message of our true blessings,
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Before the confusion.
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Masters in the mysteries of the spirit,
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Now been to remember anything that thinks of truth,
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It started a long time ago, so many without numbers,
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No longer recognizing each other is keen
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And love becomes a concept, not a necessity
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Not a believer to be family.
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The oral traditions have been badly overdoubted,
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The spiritual language replaced by commercial tongues.
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The lacking of word for heal, awakening,
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Feels enlightening.
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It seems that we may have forgotten our purpose.
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To tell the God, to own the land,
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Plant the seeds of trust deep within the heart
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And let the roots of love simply be.
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Roots Of Love
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| The Floacist |
