created and spoken by the author of this blog
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The heart of a book, is something whispered over and over again until you can’t help but to pen-to-heart . I believe the mystical -magic is in the wonder. Will the words come? How the pages fly?
Unfold like the bones of old shaken souls. Ignite the power, the soul of my pen. Maybe for the next generation. Maybe comfort for the moment.
Empty out this soulish cry. In tears, in hope, in gratitude. These are the words that chose me. Whispers that creep..Followed by: moan-full prayers drifting. Salt-full beginnings,
watch the darkness flee,~ Kindness sister Krissy
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I started to believe my soul and I had parted ways. looking over this year and even the one leading up to this
I felt abandon, I felt the sting of loss, somewhere in the spirit of facing the truth.
I believe there is nobody human enough to take count, the cost of grieving. I believe comparing one loss to another is painful,but to touch another soul like mine, is the beginning of wholeness.
I often find my soul and I have much to discuss,many nights of pleading with my soul to stay,
C’mon soul, stay alive
C’mon soul its okay not to be okay, C’mon soul talk with me
meet me in the mirror unveil, the beauty of telling the truth
C’mon soul, you can’t stay here you’ve gotta move, you’ve gotta get up,you’ve gotta try.
you’ve gotta fight~ Kindness sister Krissy
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Sometimes change is standing still,
out in the middle of nowhere watching the breeze comb through the sky, sitting down at the banks of river, tip, the scales of grace- while the waters are flowing and the green grass tickles the heels of ivory sand.
Lay down in the coolness of the day being loved in all that God made watching me, and me watching God and God walking in the silence
and silence blowing back a smile in my direction . that’s how I knew I was something God made and God was there eavesdropping goodness …~kindness sister Krissy
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created and spoken by the author of this blog
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with conviction, mothers raise their children in prayers like rivers of the night, like the dreams of the negro mother. A higher Love, through adversity, through trauma and tragedy. through all night prayers, sitting by the bedside,
awaiting -little makings of something beautiful.
A higher Love,
that love would ask a mother’s dream – be heard over preaching reins of suffering up storms,
be heard again in the quiet ache and swarm.
allow the the dust to settle in a moment a woman is born…
Her prayers will breathe.Dear God, for all of our Mothers
our prayers will wear our names as embers that burn before the throne
prayers that be: raging, weeping, sowing , seeping prayers that break the monotony, degradation and brutality prayers that have no end and no beginning. ~kindness sis Krissy. -
by the Author of this Blog
Krissy Mosley Ministries 