the Whisperer whispers, and my storm runs out of itself

_{^{digital art RN}}

“Weeping may endure a night but Joy will blaze thru your morning,” ( Psalms scream via Time & all tempest) while

the Whisperer Himself sows Newness, like a Vineyard in my soul:

I go and branch like a branch; buds of healing break my wilderness. This cannot be. But it is.

The Whisper tends my dying graveyard like a Helper, a Server. Can all this be? But that’s the deadliest human storm :

Doubt.

^{Photograph : Don Ricardo, Unsplash}

waiting in the Waiting

What lives with you