A wise reflection

The day was cheery bright and full of light, the last task of the day; to finish a picture meant as homework overnight. This being a tree at night, with shining stars above, with wise old owl perched on tree, only one thing missing the sketches voice. The scenes colours spoke volumes more than the future that would make it come to life, that time the life after life.

This was one point in time, recorded by a smaller Sam, a beautiful achievement she could be proud of. Under the influence of a ghost; the wisdom of that moment, only known to him.

A clue to why the truth could never be perceived between man and God. The time would come round full circle, wisdom the called point; always going to be, in some small way; her. As a spirit friend the humble old barn owl, sharp in perspective, was the truer influence of light.

Unknown point received by the soul; the root of her vine, blood like all. An epiphany of a moment, would say light between words found with the day dream would become all there was for her healing. when everlasting light with energy, wanted the picture captured, but a moment for healing, time would see nothing of truth the light and the light would be the architecture of a new course.

The wisdom began to grow, watching her always the owl with stars looking down, as she looked up at the beauty of the owl were obsolete, her finite knowing truth of her, a life knowing breath; the light of day and night.

She would ponder for a second, a goal a philosophical paradox. In her mind the goal of architecture; to her heart it made sense, in the soul seemed true for her. Watching, waiting for the acceptance of who she was rang out without a word. A clue the circle, called life. That moment all meet, called death, but a release for the healing purpose, found in design and goal, the structure of creation by and with recreation. A Dream her own the picture with no other seeing; a wisdom in Metamorphosis. The sum too much for other equations, her insanity in a picture, that dull night, made bright as she always was.

Sam approached in the dream roots opening into a new world, not a barn of time but a dream scope of a future, with soul learning. All around each sketch light shining of a gift, the fountain of her passion. Through root of vine, she understanding a sounder time; knew the jewels of her family were to relax and see the hidden meaning in the picture. Sensible friends in life, with empathy in nature, with them no harm came. With unfriendly others empathy would destroy her personal world, as if the barn with each sketch had been destroyed by nature.

She threw a stone into the fountain, seeking an answer to her youth and self, watching in the ripples of water she saw her first sketch and remembered the achievement smiling. In the background an unexpected guardian, watching over her shoulder. Forever her life always to remain. Pictures like a flick book, that moment of sincerity, unrealised until the moment death brought the resurrection to her mind she would find a balance, never seen in life. A guardian would affirm the light her oppressed gift in truth.

Each frame telling, empathy her burden and her woes, just misunderstood as a predator. when light shone upon the page it was the owl watching the barn, as if outside in the dream, inside the influence of passion the wrong Influence, that flight unwise. Every one wise like the barn owl, a resident of her vision, the nights dream taking flight into the skies, soaring above instead of swooping for its prey. Patiently observing her memories, she in sequence without order, as if a dream had began, made sense of her, with heavens rest within the truth hidden; a filter of God; us. His holographic projection, we, as if a picture sketched, the real page of himself a conglomerate, our memories.

The death, obsolete. The fountain showing truth, a natural tree of age no more, a hurt or woe returning than a tree is noticed growing. Miraculously; left to remain. The past nature, wings progressing through heaven, without stones being cast. Swift devotion; with a revealing truth one day would allow her to dream.

Her dream; that picture already drawn in light, a moment filtered. The picture of an owl perched on growing branch watching the night as if governing the sleepers, yet herself dreaming order longed for the wisdom to learn, weather positive or negative, of the light of the truth, it would be a sign affirming her Question. "Was she whom the wise old owl had said?"

Her heart knew but her mind argued with the inability to learn, after light what others saw and heard a question to her. No one would ever see, expect the god who sent her to wonder of the gift oppression. The art that affirm truth, was recording her history. Hidden discreetly in each picture, a purpose; life defeating death, paradox balancing dichotomy.

Order from that chaos; bringing the creation a philosophy, a paradox to relax the wise old barn owl. Waiting for acceptance all experiences are real; the observing all from outside the barn, that history within. A tree growing, seen really, yet never noticed of growing. The small things, the other people god created for it to grow like all things.

Only known of age when cut down, its death by unnatural man; the only murderer unwise. The barn owl watching always; seen or not would come out of that dark, and dream the day, to never see day for humbly at night known light by the moon, the reflection of that light. What made the picture, filled it with colour and brought it to life, for contentment and rest in truth all god wants for his children.

That structure intricate, the architecture of a design; home a wonder like the reason she was seeing the picture. If home where the heart is, has never been proven like buildings seen, then how else could we function. All pictures, the history of invention. That owl perched, waiting in the picture discreetly for someone to enter and see the barn at the same time, just waiting. A voice, for the picture coming to life, an ear of heart with light all those colours in the picture. Our rest, in sincerity our depths of relaxation, seeing that picture come to life, only through purity in a heart unafraid of others can the owl swoop in ever-trusting the heart itself, as the true picture, man don't care for.