Poetry In Motion

We're all poetry in motion in God's hands ‘aren't you a poet? ' I am if God made me. The body of butterflies is damn ugly, but with glowing wings, their beauty expands. We're not two-or-three dimensional we've got a fourth and fifth; do you get my gist there is something very intentional something special makes us exist. And yet remains purposeful and unclear every life radiant with its own music follows its drumbeat, each balladeer comes, composed of grace's own acoustics. If a rock crumbles to sand - composedly turned to crystal glass, can't you apprehend? We're all poetry in motion in God's hands ‘aren't you a poet? ' I am if God made me. With glowing wings, beauty wanton expands flies in the face of many hopeless demands; guess the music in me wasn't really mine. Like an orchestra, everything intertwines.