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