What makes glorious life?
When pen and plight, too numb, collide
What beauty permeates stone?
Till I, in He, resound alone.
We talk, so often of death and pain
Yet forget the living
And here I stand with arms, waiting for direction, aiming for the target I cannot see
Or maybe I can…
Or maybe I am hesitant to step, without seeing where my feet will land
Either way, pen in hand, write my story.