Glorious

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.

I’ll go

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