There will be no hesitation for me to seek the justice for my heart.  
It lay trodden against the rain soaked sand and bits of antique thoughts not spoken and no longer to be wasted away on empty Christmas cheer. Apple cobblers go left untouched and cinnamon twists become stale in the cave.   I am a stove without heat and a chimney filled with soot
  …       Elsewhere and almost in the distance I do here the angels.