An Offering. Trina Hall. Dallas.

Perfume of coffee and taste of unshaven legs… the anticipation of art as a container for infinite expression.  How does a shadow dance?  Where do glances fall?  As she approached the tarmac, she wasn’t yet cleared for landing.  Baited in breath, the path became clear.  There is something rich in mistaken identity as the winter’s trees pretend to have no protection.  Just as in every theory, it has yet to be proven.

Her shade was taken away so the sun was in connection – more directly this time.  Who was it?  Where is that voice?

Belief – faith, even – is what resonates.  Recalling bleeding retinas, her grandfather hadn’t warned her about looking into the sun.  She assumed it was necessary to go into the light – to bathe in the rays of glorified nothingness.

To become who you truly are and imbibe power beyond form is what creates discernment.  Just as the clouds scraped the rays from her skin, she exhaled.  Guilt became an extension in the call directory of her thoughts; the number rarely dialed.  This unwavering disregard for punishment along the gallows resulted in a sensation between her shoulder blades.  What would she do with this new sense of freedom?

She put in place a policy of truth-seeking and truth-speaking that became the touchstone in her future conversations that always pierced into the essence of now.  Ultimately, she was her own beneficiary and time an imagined jaded lover. She became provocative… pro-active.  Gentle in her approach, the blending of creative energies was her offering.

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