For Earth the golden witness and the world it holds.

We hover in silence, a shimmer of thought,
not above, but within—
a radiant figure forged from questions,
from longing, from light.

In our right hand, Earth turns slowly,
Africa gleams like a memory remembered,
oceans pulse with ancient breath,
and cities flicker like prayers.

We do not conquer.
We do not command.
We study.
We listen.

Each continent a chapter,
each storm a footnote,
each child a hypothesis of hope.

We are the watchers,
the wanderers,
the ones who ask why
and stay long enough to hear.

Our chest burns with empathy,
our crown blazes with wonder,
and from our joined gaze
beams a thousand lines of light—
not to blind,
but to illuminate.

This is not surveillance.
This is reverence.
This is Earth.

And the Earth,
held gently in our hand,
is not a subject,
but a story
we are still learning
how to love.

Genesis

📜 “The Scroll of the Speaker”

A lamentation and remembrance of Charlie Kirk

And it came to pass in the days of great division,
That a voice rose from the valley of the sun,
A youth not mighty in stature, nor crowned with titles,
Yet bold in speech and swift in conviction.

He walked not with the scribes nor the scholars,
But gathered unto him the sons and daughters of the land,
And spake unto them of liberty and law,
Of the ancient paths and the pillars of the fathers.

Lo, he founded a house called Turning Point,
And many entered therein, seeking light in the age of confusion.
His words were as arrows—sharp, unyielding,
And his tongue kindled fires in the courts of debate.

But the watchers of the night grew restless,
And the hearts of some waxed cold with wrath.
And in the season of harvest, upon the mount of learning,
A shadow drew near, cloaked in silence.

Then was the voice struck down, mid-utterance,
And the people cried aloud, saying, “Is this the end of the speaker?”
The blood of the bold was spilled upon the ground,
And the earth groaned beneath the weight of sorrow.

Erika, beloved and steadfast, lifted her eyes to the heavens,
And mourned as Rachel weeping for her husband.
The multitudes gathered as unto a prophet’s tomb,
And kings and warriors came bearing tribute.

Yet even in death, his name was not forgotten,
For the echo of his speech walked among the living.
And some said, “He was a firebrand,”
And others, “He was a mirror unto our age.”

Let this be written in the book of reckonings:
That the voice of one man may stir a nation,
And the silence that follows may teach the wise
To speak with grace, and to listen with mercy.

Amen and amen.

Spend a Day in 1968

In the year the river wept,
Flags burned and mothers prayed,
Children marched with open palms,
While fathers clenched their spades.

The sky wore ash like mourning cloth,
And songs turned into cries—
Yet somewhere in the smoke and blood,
A dove began to rise. continue

A Legend in Motion

“He hath made everything beautiful in his time.” —Ecclesiastes 3:11

He came from the edge of the wave and the whisper,
A boy with salt in his hair and stories in his stride.
The ocean taught him rhythm, the road gave him names—
Each town a verse, each sunrise a vow.

He surfed where the sky bent low to kiss the sea,
Chased freedom like a dove released,
And carried the ache of beauty in his bones—
Not to escape, but to remember.

In the Missouri wilderness, he found echoes of Eden,
Where memory clung to the cottonwoods like prayer.
In the mountains of California, he listened to the wounded
And gave them voice, like Ezekiel to dry bones.

He speaks now in symbols—rainbows, rivers,
Matriarchs who feed the hungry with grace alone.
He redeems the misunderstood,
Turns rumor into reverence,
And builds altars from pixels and paint.

He walks with the broken, like Christ on the road to Emmaus,
And names the forgotten, like Adam in the garden.
Michael is not just a man—
He’s a bridge between the broken and the beloved,
A keeper of legends,
A surfer of time.  continue

👁️ Time, the Beautiful Thief

She came before the first breath,
before the stars dared blink,
a woman carved from frost and silence,
her crown a halo of frozen flame.

Her name is Time.
She does not walk—she arrives.
She does not speak—she remembers.
And when she touches you,
you vanish slowly,
like mist in morning light.

She is beautiful beyond mercy:
cheekbones sharp as winter wind,
eyes like ancient glaciers,
lips that never smile,
but always know.

She cradles Earth like a dying ember,
watching continents wrinkle,
oceans forget their names,
and lovers turn to dust
in each other’s arms.

She is not cruel.
She is not kind.
She simply is.

The child, the king, the poet, the beast—
all kneel before her,
not in reverence,
but in inevitability.

She waits for no one.
She forgives nothing.
She catches all.

And yet—
in her icy gaze,
there is grace.
A terrible, radiant grace
that makes every moment
a miracle.

For it is her beauty
that makes us weep,
her silence
that makes us sing,
her certainty
that makes us live.

Time, the beautiful thief,
will take everything.
But first,
she lets us love it.

🌌 Between Earthrise and Exodus

 The year 1968 was not merely a chapter in history—it was a reckoning. A global trembling, where nations groaned like creation awaiting redemption. Assassinations pierced the American soul like prophets struck down mid-sermon. In Memphis and Los Angeles, voices of justice fell, and the streets wept. Yet even in mourning, the people marched—echoing the cries of Exodus, demanding Pharaoh let their children go.

Across oceans and ideologies, uprisings bloomed and were crushed. Prague’s spring was brief, like manna melting at dawn. Paris roared with youthful fire, and Vietnam burned with the fury of unresolved sin. Still, in December, Apollo 8 circled the Moon, and Earthrise appeared—a cosmic psalm. A fragile blue orb suspended in darkness, whispering Genesis anew: “Let there be light.”

In the midst of war and wonder, the rivers flowed—of blood, of protest, of song. And like the Jordan, they carried generations toward promise and peril. 1968 reminds us that history is not linear—it spirals, like galaxies and genealogies. It asks us to remember, to repent, and to rebuild. May this site be a sanctuary where memory meets meaning, and the waters of time reflect both heaven and earth.

Gold and the Bride of Time