Writers in Hiding
James Viafara
Writers in Hiding. (Adjudicator)
Fall I: Confession.
I don’t want to stay in this place:
Wasting time and reasoning in vain.
Chasing facades and losing my pace,
Only to wonder what I was to gain.
Accepting the things I could’ve strived to change,
Thinking of the value of my many names.
Fall II: Mediation.
I misplaced my trust, and my soul was betrayed.
Truth is eternal and the thought remained.
What had my mind become in this place?
Sensed stagnant tension, and broken intentions.
Taken further from a Godly nation,
All through once innocent contemplation.
Fall III: Intercession.
The culture is faking; our struggle is sacred.
The sunsets fade in my quotidian remembrance.
From children to poets and dreamers to chasers,
The world has made us rich in our desolation.
Why don't we fight for true liberation?
Hoped and accepted His intercession.
Winter I: A Conversation.
Found by your love, the light made me sane.
I am restored by your abounding embrace;
You broke the barriers and strengthened my frame.
Seeds of deceit exposed and uprooted.
If I want to sing, I must find the music.
A song of hope for the dove in movement.
Winter II: Judgement.
The words from my mouth are heard by the seekers.
The walls cave in as I talk to deceivers.
A truth is unheard of, I have kept it hidden.
For writers in hiding could get to the vision.
I’ve kept true intentions behind my mission.
Winter III: Revelation.
The chosen ones will get to feel the lation,
One revelation organized throughout the nation.
Suffix and prefix our conversation.
Their missiles are as futile dignation.
The Lord’s presence is restoration.
Spring I: Reintroduction.
Trace our steps back to the entrance,
I don’t want to fall into wasteful places.
My thoughts remain, through a bruised complacence.
Reformed ideals from the standard’s bases.
Significant faces and reliant verses.
Spring II: Redemption.
The rhymes are empty,
The pages are vacant.
The world moves as the seasons are arranged.
Flowers are birthed and the trees have ascended.
The cycles are broken and the rhythm’s redemptive.
Spring III: Harvest.
Laying down foundations of rejoicing.
Seeds of hope from a youthful soul,
Planted in sorrow and reaped with joy.
In this philosophy, you are not alone.
Time’s revealed; our plane transcends the known.
