A man stands alone. High upon a hilltop. A rocky cliff bed
his pulpit. His story to tell.
A man sits blanketed asleep across a grated steam hole. His
cardboard sign lay dormant on the concrete slab where he lay his head. Will
work for food. His story to tell.
The old man sits quietly by the window. Peering out dreaming
of when he was a young man. Seeing pictures of her flutter against his eyelids.
His mouth lifts in memory. Stories alive in his heart.
Eyes unseeing. Dark grey suit arms crossed in prayer
clasping silver plastic rosary beads. Forever silent his voice. His legend. His
stories sleep with him.
A crowded business center. Hungry young men seeking enlightenment.
Knowledge. From a cherry wood lectern beneath bright lights he dazzles. He
delivers rapture. He sings righteousness and freedom. His real voice hidden
beneath the falsehood of who he pretends to be.
A little boy. Filled with mischief. Wonder. With eyes wide
he sees a world majestic. His voice unending. Imagination borne of his
innocence. Do we hear his voice?
This life. A kaleidoscope perspective. Teaching. Discovery.
A thousand voices give flight to our souls. Hearts open filled. We listen. This
voice matters. Something to say. Unyielding thirsty. Do we hear?
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