Let the gift be faith. Many at war. We emphasize it. Many ask, why? How it feels to own promise. A man chides his understanding, realizing where he stands, each shift is a celebration of sanity. (With watching comes questions, ease of Love’s rain, one last trace trying its future.) In knowing grief, one knows joy, comparing and contrasting the two.
I might put every suggestion in a hat, so unfair to assess us, full on over there, such sullen silence. I expected misfires, with creatures wafting afar, accustomed to eternal chastisement. Some can’t change—be it goodness or badness. Personality is static.
Pulled into orbit, negotiating with motivation, they call us ambitious.
When it feels like coal, resonates with soot, and grinds one into fiberglass, we call it love. Such aspiration. Damn near irrational. I leave alone those cisterns. I come back to where they dropped me off at. If to lose breath, to flicker into flame, to surrender to imperfection. Such testimony. Healing for the big show. Too disappointed or too infatuated or destined for ambivalence. The pain is this: one loses years, and gets pieces of wisdom. Time is delicate, souls are wasting increments of existence.
By graces—faced by faith, for many it’s Moses, for many it’s Yeshua. Vouchsafing. Many mistakes. Holding the torch, running through a storm, trying to warn the community.
