There’s so much beauty, looking around.
I’m not awake early enough to witness and appreciate.
The art of God.
The birds and the rough feel of bark.
Maybe I stopped believing a while ago, a long, long time ago.
But there’s that fear, isn’t there?
Always.
The flowers wilt before summer has come, but they’re used to an early death.
There’s shattered glass everywhere you look, bottles of arrogance and misery more than drunkenness.
No matter how many shards I pick up and clean, someone will get hurt.
Someone is always made to carry hurt.
Right now we move so fast, miles and miles at a time, nobody slows for you.
You’ll never make it if you can’t run.
And It never turns out how you want,
but I think that’s the meaning of God.
To pray for salvation, for something that cannot be saved, hoping.