Church is poetry. Poetry is life. A life well lived.
Nothing. Her hands held out, reaching empty spaces, vacuous trances silence held in sacred space missing.
A million trains travel through my head daily. I miss every damn train. I arrive at the depot, out of breath, with frantic nerves from tireless searching, and grief enmeshed between pores. Looking into the glass-enclosed diorama, I strain to see the impervious face of my heart.