Exploring, the Waves that want to Come Forth….

Exploring, the Waves that want to Come Forth….


Lately, I have seemed to drift into a longing. That longing, through trenches and long roads, has become somewhat a formidable and persistent urge to shape sound. This adventure, utilizing sonic scopes, fragments of yesteryear, and thoughts I haven’t thought yet have opened up cravings I thought long-repressed. I love space. I love the aural gargantuan, the largeness of explosion and the dispersion of the its debris. I love auric soundscapes that delve layer upon layer into the God of space. The Holy Scatterer of vast expanses.

I like big. I like open. I like deserts and moon-terrain. I want to explore the heavens and take long, deep breathes of Hubblean scenery through the non-blinking lens of sheer and total wonderment. Blessed viewphoric mouthfuls causing worship to bleed through skin and voice. I want, I desire from untold chasms in this doubtful frame, to erupt with fresh, vibrant praise.

Bring on warm, bubbling tubes and delay after delay after effects-laden screams toward emperion. Beckon the thirdheaven. Bring me closer to Your invigorating, soul-rearranging Voice that I might not sin against Thee. Because, right now, I cannot seem to properly translate through these petty hands what I would like to say to You. That You are all in all…that You are my only dredging passion that rakes the further insides and the largest fissures of whoever I am.

Oh Silver Flamethrower, O’ Golden Pavement Layer…I want more sounds, I long for a new vocabulary, I am brought low…distraught, over my newfound inability—in and of myself—to proclaim sufficient praise to a Beauty like You. Shaking. Uncontainable pressure. Pregnant with volatile zeal, ready to birth new-psalms and All-prayer all over a tortured people. A truth-starved hive of mockers, sloth-villains, and the neo-botched…die outside my door each and everyday. Help me cry to them! Help me communicate! Lord knows, we speak not a dead language.

So let the river of sound pour in waves upon dry rocks; speak and life will surely spring from parched behavior. Music, words, envelope, incarcerate the minds of these that my souls bursts for….

Oh, and I know You put this unction for outlet in me…so utterly explode this insufficient man and may the lesser-nova bring You ever-so-much Glory.


About Joshua M. Brindle

Child. Father. Husband. Herald. Writer. Messenger. Psalmist. Poet-Prophet. Biker. Beard-wearer. Teacher. Pastor? Follower. Disciple. Disciple-er. Bearer of the Torche. Keeper of the Flame. Waver of the Banner. Running the race. Fighting the fight. Revolutionary...hopefully.
This entry was posted in Flame, HeBrews Coffe & Music, Poet-Prophet, Psalms of The Frozen Frontiersmen, Revival and tagged , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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