The Virtue of Wait(Patience & Why It Is Valuable)(Trigger Warning, mentions blood and religion)

Soldiers wait for martyrdom. Experiments yield fruit within fruit, and no seeds. A lingering cold in the crafter’s hands--meticulous, fashioned, worthy. Even chefs must stop to allow the gourmet to be. 

Spice, sugar, plants, rice. Growing in turn with nature. Bleeding when it bleeds and connected to the dirty organs. Earth’s blood is not of red nor blue, but a cyclical, paradoxical hue. It’s eyes the clouds, it’s heart the core, it’s trees the hair and roots the pore. Earth dies but does not want more--it only asks God. Earth inquires, begging for its blood back, when answered no, it waits to bleed again. Earth is no biological creature but a physiological one. The Sun mothers. Humans smother--the flesh of the living over their enamels and the blood of root wisping about man’s skin. The Sun nurses its child all the while it falters, its wounds mocked by relentless salters. Yet the Sun lives to nurse its Earth, and the Earth to nourish the flesh within, and the flesh within to care about conscience, and conscience is the penultimate to death. 

The River of Time and its continuous flow.

Lifting all that is low. 

Creatures drawn to entropy they fleet from. 

Patience is the stone to the rock--the music to the structure, the compromise to the Holy Deal. 

*** sends its flames, Heaven presents horses tame, God presents clay shaped fame. 

Humanity--fashioned from nature and fashioned by spirit, such spirit incapable of hate.

“Perfect” does spell wait.

God and his infinite hands, composing the delicate sands, providing both insight and a heart locked--by the Earth. Millennia until our planet perfected, space provided by being dissected. The clock only waits as it breaks--and the foul decomposition used to feed the soil, then dried by plants, who wait to bear fruit, and animals consume after a period of wait. Time decides fate, and the only way to eye is to wait. 9 months, 18 years, a century, an unfinished thought. Patience wins all but sinful rot. Man does not run out of time, or lose his life forever, it is just both run out when God chooses to sever. Be not afraid of time--it is not death nor despair, but a force of both merciless destruction followed by meticulous repair.

Yet, a creature despairs. The Minotaur hunts for his meals, even if lives he must steal. The Minotaur: an agent of time, acting as a tragic Death, hunting the man that mimics him. In that endless maze of corrupt craze, the Minotaur knows his starvation, oh his vile being and tribal temptation! The Minotaur lays his eyes upon flesh, knowing it will run out, and when he consumes it, how his tears do spout. The lack of flesh starves him once more, yet he understands more lies through the gore. In the eyes of the Minotaur, time is infinite and nothing has more. 

We do not run out of time, time runs out of us. Time is just as alone as we are: an immortal force carving stone of a predisposition damned. It outlives whatever is created. Time… is the Minotaur--a creature so alone, mad & sore. God did not make a creature melancholy, but articulated an amalgam of space and fabric--only capable of the word, “sorry.” 

Does this make man resonate with time, or does man leave to associate with the sublime? Time is grandeur--a fear impossible to feel, but a sorrowful sense. Back to entropy, man is, hence why man craves the past--from birth to kiss. The first lie, a curdling hiss. 

The River of Time and its continuous flow. 

Silencing man, a force empty and hollow. 

A creature drawn to the past--to the organization and memories fast. 

A Minotaur, a river, capable of gore and frail, feeble shivers.

Time feels for a creature drowning in folly. 

Time always flows--it never ebbs, only sows.

Reap the seeds before damnation.

Control vile urges and learn of your own temptation.

Patience gives conscience sapience.

Protect man from time’s hollow damnation.

God demands to wait.

Perfection gives man weight.

Good deeds on our empty plate.