Poetry Still The Light

Screens flicker endlessly, pulling us into their glow—

a world remade in algorithms and instant desires,

where yesterday's truths dissolve like mist at dawn.

I walk these streets, feel the weight of shifting sands,

cultures fracturing under the roar of change,

hearts chasing shadows that vanish by morning.



Yet in the quiet of my own unraveling,

Jesus emerges, steady as the first breath of light

piercing a storm-clouded sky. His Word,

not a relic dusted in forgotten corners,

but alive in my pulse—speaking to the ache

of isolation in crowded digital feeds,

to the rage boiling in divided rooms.



It cuts through, relevant as the air I breathe,

unchanged from the deserts of old to my urban sprawl.

I've seen it hold friends through grief's raw edge,

guide me when doubt clawed at faith's fragile threads.

Jesus, still the answer in boardrooms and breakdowns,

the light that doesn't flicker with trending hashtags—

supreme, reigning over the chaos I navigate daily.



In this era of reinvention, His presence anchors me,

a constant flame in the whirlwind of now.
 

Recent Discussions

Back
Top