Church is poetry. Poetry is life. A life well lived.
Haven’t thought much lately. At least nothing too deep. It is 4:09 am. Our apartment is quiet. The apartment above us is quiet. No footsteps creaking or baby crying. The curry smells from next door are tamed. Our dinner dishes are washed and a week’s worth of work clothes are ready. Freshly pressed.
Some where, some one is moving. The force of life is being applied. Rightly? I hope so. We all hope so. Except the person with a gun in hand pays no attention to our wishes. An argument ensues. And words are bad but not good enough for the gun in hand. Words kill but bullets finish the job. No compromising, in that town. Not today. Not ever.
It is an hour before the sun rises. I am too far away from the Atlantic to look out the window and watch the sun appear. I take life for granted. The easy flow of air. I imagine the moon is the same. Thoughtless.