If it wasn’t for faith—in a moving soul, where’d he be?
If snatched from faith, pieces replaced, where’d he be?
The goodness of a man slain, slaughtered, smiling nonetheless.
An impossible rain—tumbleweeds, cacti, deepening faith.
So many flaws, so many boxes, looking at it, wondering how it got there.
We find rhythm in the beat, we find dance near fire, we locate faith by avenues.
Such universal language; such at birth; handed a book of life, too novice to feud, abstracts, life, more resurrections.
The target keeps running, along a chase, preserving keepsakes.
To imagine motive, denied its art, is virtually impossible.
Thinking is a craft. Pain is a portrait. Words are inadequate.
To perceive it, kicked out of the garden, to know it was once beautiful, to look back, & understand faults, a dear recognition.
The birth of remorse.
It all went right, or wrong, to forfeit luxuries, to side with slavery.
A deeper analysis—to know it becomes—not what it endeavors.
Flustering trials. To realize their eternal. To be included, like they are, to realize, something is just about it.
More faith enters every crevice: life is faith.
