They need a few words, the King asks, where is the poet, he must write the lines. The pages are before him, he wants to fill them with words, it’s the story of the inner child, the secret place where angels dwell, the mountains of bias and ego don’t exist yet, there is nothing to blind the little one. Everywhere he goes, he can see them, Spirits, only eyes that young can see them, eyes that have not been burdened.
Solomon read the paper over his coffee, the usual, the weekend games, the pundits and their fury, the fate of another manager, by the next day, it would all be forgotten, same way the car park fills and empties, we take new places, and we rarely remember where we parked the day before, unless it’s reserved of course, and we are made to feel important.
A baby sits before the music man, too young to be a fan, can’t spell his name, can’t recall the lyrics, he just bobs his head and listens, the rhythm gets him, and so it gets the angels, who he see’s floating about, cause he is not blinded by things yet, but can see what seems eternal, the way faith is, you can’t see it, you can’t hold it, all you can do is
pass it on. The baby nods, listens with his friends, amen.
To be part of the Kingdom, as Jesus would say, you have to be just like that child. Solomon sighed, it’s amazing what you learn from a simple picture, amen.