Life must mean goodness, made sour, cleaving to alignment; glancing at darker skies, an orange horizon, doing fifty through grays. I expect some element, to see a face, to ask with all my might; and moving became essence, motion was home, grappling with walls; so prone to fixing it, realized in breakage, palming a soul storm. One sound, ash to seas, floating further into finitude.
Morning comes to pass by. The sun appears, it intensifies, it wanes. The moon sees more.
A block filled with suffering. A country filled with Christ. And we try to fathom God—those ways, if understanding would be so kind.
A smile in a child, an unknowing creature, before she asks a keynote question.
Sorrow becomes countenance, it looks like wisdom, it flits through language, it flames in voice.
By the flesh to discover errors. By the spirit to dispute violence. By the soul to create arts.
Sunlit rain, those cobblestones, those apostles; to follow closely, to trip at a pit, to unravel snares. Love has become incredible, losing emphases, an inevitable comfort.
