#TheVillagePoet

[thevillagepoet]

The charm of artistry gifted from the stars

Imagery courtesy of Dlala Badman Style ™ Sefikeng Sa Moshoeshoe Maseru Lesotho.

They remain open in mind.

The souls of restless hands threaded upon prayer in images reminiscent of the start.

A clan fixated upon circular lines, the margins between the endless fire and the spark.

The signs of a life lived wise. For the stars selfishly guard the rise of the devoted sun from the dark.

Planets suspended in flight the products of the anxious rumblings synonymous with a God's sight.

The young naturally gravitate towards this peak, distantly near he remains within reach.

Among the oldest trades the sherphards still teach. They remain our leaders, expectant fathers in feat, the pride and of those first to retreat from the long arduous waking sleep.

May their righteous labor hasten her blushing orchid skies to weep.

For there can be no long lasting peace than the gift of a generous harvest fought through persistent sleet.

[thevillagepoet]

In the beginning not long after the smog of the salt and ether the Lord decreed that the earnest stand in the house of the fallen to ensure a brother's will be whole.

Imagery courtesy of @thefabricera (IG-OG)

The plot between two seeds is a restless course best likened to finely woven seams.

The flock remains a gathering from where the presence of the spirit is seen. The dreams of man then hold no reverence without her brethren.

The way the fields hold no yield without protection. The brother who scatters that which should be ploughed prepares a nest among crows. Selfishly guards his brow yet discards his neck to the cold.

The fall of the earnest arose a call of the wise to conduct the affairs of those in their trust as their own. For there lies no temple for Cain or for what Judah foretold.

The essence of Honour transcends the greatest of odes, for even the young follow not that which they are told.

Steely silence remains a legacy of the bold.

[thevillagepoet]

The decade was worth the wait 🇱🇸

In a place shrouded with the most delicate lines lies an ode to our perception of time.

The defiant stand from an indifferent breech into this world he returned as the distinguished dapper Dan known in odes & fiery speech.

The fated leap of paired falcons that seasonly droop from this strange coup. The northern stars of the eleventh hour.

He remains the burning promise of trepidation towards the peak.

The cooly calculated spark of coded scripture and guarded stain glass pictures. The one who came not long after he left.

The liberating gasp of breath from the depths of still waters. His eyes hold odes from which his voice is yet to cement.

His aura a raging storm of intent. Toward the summit from which he did last ascend.

[thevillagepoet]

Another ambered dawn drawn from a rewritten chapter yet to be born.

Imagery courtesy of @hashtagliveza

The slothful slither of the city would still after a millennia be wasted upon this community.

The righteous mutiny of star gazing farmers and healers, teachers and beacons.

The fruits of toil not rooted in gold or stone. The soil still too sacred an oath from crown to heel. Only those of the faith proudly kneel.

Along ancient houses of bronze wanderers and dotted statuaries crafted from clay.

Their spoken gospel long appropriated and exported as a means to pray.

Though their speech all but forgotten, their strange science remains, seasons within men destined to change while remaining the same.

That which was taken in vain be bequeathed as sacrosanct tribute in prayer to the descendants of those living though slain.

[thevillagepoet]

Blushing cheeks were made for cloudy weather 🌺

Odes scribed by the oldest and strangest folk who pray with feat. 📲🚪

Imagery courtesy of @hashtagliveza (IG-OG)

I could be wrong but muddy weather keeps the farmers warm.

The Lushly dense yet grounded, sprouting crowns arching out toward one's needs. The cause of distant mumbled or incoherent speech.

The preachers sermon is pieced upon what the rains provide for the soul to receive. The answered prayers of pews left well restored.

Prickling winds beget blushing cheeks, the earnest plough for weeks just for moments such as these.

The sun a song too long and as swift. A fickle balance drifting upon an endless game.

The most noble cause to pray. The swelling air from which a compass directs the ship the course to stay.