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Rhythm of the Rain
Upon my knees in prayer, bless my words
oh Lord this late October night.
The peaceful calm...hear the rhythm of rain.
I send words a far distance, to a woman
to know of better. A need in heart as
you designed. A helper's soul to share.
Show the way oh Lord...hear the rhythm of
This peaceful calm is meant to share.
So I will not fear or avoid rough water
as I travel this, your river of time.
Stirring the water gently after her.
I send word, I await her response.
I risk causing the ripples, I put the oar
to use, though hidden rocks lay beneath.
To travel a straight route ahead
will take a steady rhythm...
The final destination is in the timing
together, a give and take, gained
in the sharing of the waters ahead.
But if one only wants the peaceful
calm, never risking to ask the other,
that one, suffers in circles...
..just hearing the rhythm of the rain.
Bo.When Lindsay was born, Bo was there. Standing beside her mother, he was the first thing she ever saw. But he was not her father; her father stood on the other side.
Bo was there until the very moment she died.
The sun shone bright through the windows of her pink-laden room. She loved pink. And black.
“Because Bo is black,” she’d told her parents.
Her imaginary friend, they soon concluded.
“Bo is all black,” she described one night as her father tucked her in, “His skin and his hair and everything. He doesn’t talk a lot.”
Her father frowned.
“He sounds scary.”
“He’s not,” she insisted.
Bo sat on the bed and said nothing.
Her father kissed her good night and turned out the light.
“Why can’t Dad see you?” she asked.
“Are you real?”
“Are you real?” he replied.
“How do you know?”
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