Knowing my Seed

 

I have been searching for the meaning in being conscious, 

Does it mean to be a wake, living, breathing.

Or is there something more. 

I just want to know the score and where I fit into the game. 

If my words are the seeds of awareness, 

Planted and growing from my mind, 

Oh how wonderful the fruit will be in kind. 

Being in yet not of the world,

I removed all noises yet one. 

These thoughts I mend and mould to build my future, 

Is all I will think knowingly these ideal ideas, 

Trusting my Father to dominate land air water, 

I pray sowing sea with good great loving me. 

In my searching the depths I sought,

Wondering what consciousness truly thought.

Is it breath, the waking sight,

Or something vast beyond the light?

A game, a play, a score who knows,

Where do I stand—how is it controlled?

If words are seeds in fertile mind,

Then fruit must bloom my perfect kind.

Being not of this world, yet here I be,

Listening close to the one in me.

Creating visions, molding fate,

A future sculpted, an empire state.

Trusting my Father, I pray growing gratefully. 

Sowing the sky with words lovingly me.