A Stiff Fog

A Stiff Fog

(“And the priests were unable to carry out their duties due to the cloud because the Lord’s glory filled the Lord’s temple.” 1 Kings 8:11)

It was all a fog stiff as a northern goat,
and it bid me to walk circumspect and hopeful.
As I came nearer the fence that separated the cemetery
from an open field I counted 15 deer, including fawns
the size of dogs, and my breath slowed down.

And within there is a continual mist where a prism
of moonlight reflects the sun, an inner rainbow on a
vaporous day. I felt the cool haze on my cheeks and my
hands moved voluntarily to stay warm.

I passed a home where the smoke billowed out from
their stainless-steel chimney and could smell the sweet cedar
and pine they burned. They did not cause the fog, no one did.
It just showed up on a morning when the temperatures dropped
and the ground was wet and warmer.

Some fogs disorient you; they send you in circles as you
try to find a recent point of reference. You kneel to try to
walk beneath it, but it is less translucent nearer the ground.
This fog reoriented me instead. It drew me in like a series
of announcements sent as lyrics to some holy song.

Some fogs frighten you, for much the same reason. You fear,
if it does not lift, you will never find your way home. You
stop and consider the turns you’ve taken and think you could
get there
eventually.
This fog drew me home instead. It beckoned me like the
aroma of apple pie baking like a thank offering.

Ah this inner mist, the cloud of unknowing, this uncertain
gyroscope that leaves me sometimes listless, but often is
resistless and I follow its clarion call like chimes from
a small cathedral on a Sunday midmorning.

On this day the arms of love were accessible though
my eyes stumbled along the way. Not seeing, I felt and
wondered at the sacred moments that a morning fog could bring.

The End of the Story

The End of the Story

(“Then he said to them, ‘The Sabbath was made for people, not people for the Sabbath.’” Mark 2:27)

We were in such a rush that when we were cut off
we screeched to a halt and the paragraphs crashed
into the sentences, the sentences occupied new phrases,
the phrases smashed the words. Then the words careened
into the letters and the letters confused the spaces once
separating sense from incoherence.

The question mark ended the fable only feet from
the abyss and we went on our way blissfully ignoring the
end of the story.

One Word at a Time

One Word at a Time

(“When Jesus saw their faith, he told the paralyzed man, ‘Son, your sins are forgiven.’” Mark 2:5)

You felt like a bramble bush and a whirlwind within,
a storm on the horizon, darkness surrounding every
thought and you fought the demons that told you that
things would always be the same.

You used to talk like the thaw of April;
you used to listen like the Spring rains.
But somewhere everything stopped working and
elsewhere things spoke like you were the one to blame.

But this time there were voices more like goose down;
there were offers of hope like the rising sun. You had
no better choice so you entered their hope and
rode their words multiplied by time.

The road was dusty with spots of mud left
from the brief showers overnight. You hoped
you might get through the day without fearing
the gaze that unwrapped your soul.

You didn’t know when it began, or how it
happened
that paralysis had frozen you stiff. You only
knew that if someone looked into your eyes
they would see how dark it all was within.

You arrived together and they ushered you in;
the day was nearly spent and the hour was getting late.
The journey had worn us and we were weary,
yet the moment ushered us in, lowered into the crowd that
surrounded the words you had hoped would be spoken.

You had no idea, no point of reference to
unhear the words that dislodged the shame that
misplaced you at the edge of every crowd. You took
them in

One word at a time.
And you learned that walking was another way of
discovering grace.

Still Smelling of Fish

Still Smelling of Fish

(“Jesus said to them, ‘Follow me! I will teach you how to bring in people instead of fish.’” Mark 1:17)

The day started with warm breezes wafting in from
beyond the hills wading in the shallow waters of the lake.
We knew the fishing would be good. Our nets were mended,
our food was stocked, and we were ready to stay on the water
for the whole day,

And it exceeded expectations

We were about to dock on the sand after a few more casts
of our nets. We were ready to head home after
sorting the fish by kind and size.

Then they heard words that did not register. There was the
noise of the freshening breeze plus the crosstalk of fellow
fishermen asking about each other’s haul.

We heard him say “Follow me! I’ll teach you how to catch people.”
We were not clear we had heard right but we looked toward the
voice
and recognized him immediately. We had heard him teach the
last two days at the beach. We lined up like birds on a wire and
were awestruck by his words about God’s Dream for the world.

We had little idea what catching people meant, but he was
magnetic
and we were ready charged for a change of venue. But my
brother and I
dropped our nets where they were and decided to take the risk.
We followed still smelling of fish.

That Bad Wind Plays

That Bad Wind Plays

(“I have come to buy your threshing floor. We must build an altar to the Eternal there so that this epidemic will be lifted from the people.” 2 Samuel 24:21)

Do you hate the way that bad winds play on the scorched ground
where corn and grapevines once thrived? Do you think the smoke
from a burning bull well appease or please the divine? Would God
desire something more than just an altar built on a threshing floor?

Oh David, whose heart beat for God, did you believe one more
sacrificed cow could end what looked like anger from the throne room
of the eternal one? Could God have listened even without the
sacrificial altar built on the mud?

You paid a pretty penny for the privilege, but you had a lot more
in your stockrooms at home. You didn’t want the altar to be
an act of charity
but a sort of penance paid in cash.

Did God hear you because of the burning flesh of cattle,
or because of the hope in your heart, though there was nowhere
close to sacrifice your offering? I think God had a
soft spot for you David. I think God saw beyond your
cultic reasoning and would have answered your empty-
handed prayer.

God would have answered that heart that, full of remorse,
couldn’t bear to see the plague spread any further. Did you
know
the temple would be built on this sludgy ground? Did you
realize it would fall and later would be full of crowds making money
off the religious acts of the poor?

The plague stopped that is true. Even with the later
load-bearing walls of a magnificent temple, all God wanted
was enough faith to come to him with humility and truth.

But You Stayed

But You Stayed

(“Among them were Mary Magdalene, Mary the mother of James and Joseph, and the mother of the sons of Zebedee.” Matthew 27:45)

You had as much pain as the others,
maybe even more. Did your hearts break open,
did you chest heave in grief? Did you ever think
of turning your back to escape the tragedy you could
barely stomach?

The men ran. They hid. They cowered. Yet you remained.
Was your devotion dearer, your loyalty deeper than reason
should allow. And yet you stayed until the end.

Why this strain of pain? Why this pulling out of every
organ and the lungs elongated so they could not breathe?
Why the mockery? Why the crowds demanding his death?
Yet you remained.

Were you unsettled. Did you cry on each other’s sleeves?
Were there words you remembered like “why have you forsaken me” or
“Father forgive them” or “Into your hands I commend my spirit.”
Did you puzzle each moment and wish you could be a cloud to
cover him from the curses?

And what about Mother Mary and John who stayed near? Did you
shiver when he gave them to each other? Did you wonder that,
in his anguish he would still remember his mom?

You leaned on the rocks of the ravine where you watched him die
on the opposite hill of skulls. And the darkness fell and the atmosphere
chilled and a fear you did not expect, a fear for all your nation,
bid you to take in every moment of this gruesome spectacle.

In three short years he turned your gloom into gladness.
In three short hours he moved you from questions to sadness.
In three short years he opened your eyes to primal love.
In three short hours you wondered if these things would still live
above this midday of sorrow.

But you stayed. And you waited to see where he would be buried
so you could anoint his body properly and meet the divine opportunity
to tell those hiding men that the tomb was empty and the day had
just begun.

I Feel This Shroud

I Feel This Shroud

It happens too often and I feel this
shroud will never be lifted, a burning cloud
that has sifted every memory until they lose
all meaning.
Once I could count on the smiles across from me,
but now I look away wondering if I will be
unfurled.

I try to take it in stride and stop reading the thoughts
of nebulous origin. My worry does not serve me well.

Those old connections are frayed, and I stand displayed
as if everything inside me has been revealed without
my permission.
The mountains were steeper than I remembered
and my steps smaller upon the muddy ground.

I’d start a conversation, but I run out of words to say.
I’d sing an old song, but the copies are aged like autumn.
I’d play along just to fit in. I’d list my reasons for awe
that I once displayed like a badge on my forehead.
Tonight I just can’t see how this loneliness can
lift any time soon.

But I also am weary of writing these tomes of melancholy.
They are true, I know, but so are the bright eyes that
smile back when I was looking down at my feet.
My conversations end with awkward pauses hoping I
have not repeated
phrases from just a week ago. While others are
building planter boxes for a future Spring
I sit darkly writing and wishing something would bloom
again.

Do you remember when I could walk down the
hallway to the auditorium and everyone would know
my name? Now I saunter and wish I could feel the same
as those days at eye level when everyone was my friend.

I should take a nap and start this day over again.

Never Be a Day

Never Be a Day

(“You changed my mourning into dancing. You took off my funeral clothes and dressed me up in joy.” Psalm 30:11)

I have seen the pockets where you hide away your pain;
I know you’ve prayed for darkness to cry the day like pain.
You have wanted to dance again and feel guilty when you abstain.
You’ve wished you could drink an elixir to make you love again.

Every time you peek out from your hidden cave you’ve made,
every time you let the sunlight catch your eyes,
you hope and imagine it will be different, things will change this time.
But within days the gloom sets in again and you knew you shouldn’t
be surprised. You cannot even count on sleep to be your friend.

With me you can hide if you want. Or I will turn down the lights so
you can let your tears drop unseen. Or I will reach inside your
pockets and remove a stone or two. I would heal it all if I
could.
I would change the wounds backwards in time before the
first evil befell you. I would mend the seams where the
violence
caused your voice to cease its beautiful song.

If I could I would hold you forever; if you let me,
I would blow away every sore and scarred place you
hide so well. The days would shine again; your eyes
would take the lifeline and sparkle again.

So, when I ask if you are ok, you can share one of those
pocketed stones with me. There will never be a day
when
I will turn away from anything you show me.

That We Would Stay

That We Would Stay

(“He told them, ‘My soul is crushed with grief to the point of death. Stay here and keep watch with me.’” Matthew 26:38)

Sadness makes me slumber and pain makes me crazy;
and I could not choose which one I would lose when you
told us you were grieving far greater than we understood.
Perhaps it was the wine with dinner,
perhaps it was the dinner itself;
Or maybe it was the evening fog climbing the mount to
the garden where we had come.

All we wanted was clarity and all we had were pronouncements
we never quite understood. But we could hear it in your voice
that sounded vacant and your eyes red with pleading.
We had spent time with you before, just the three of us and
you,
but tonight was different and the air was heavy with discontent.

I promised to do anything for you my future and present Lord,
but though my spirit willed it, my will was drowsy and heavy
with the construction of a home on what felt like sinking sand.
We wished we were angels and could wing our flight above
the garden to watch out for the coming gloom.

Crushed with grief you said. To the point of death you said.
And we barely heard or understood. It felt like the nets of
safety
were badly torn and every evil was about to fill the massive
holes
that kept classless horror at bay. And all you asked us was to pray.
All you asked was that we would stay.

I Thought it Was Courage

I Thought it Was Courage

(“Peter said to him, ‘If they all fall away because of you, I will never fall away!’” Matthew 26:33)

I meant it when I said it; I thought it was courage and
never entered my mind it could be hubris. You were our hope,
our royal, our King, our divine deliverer and we were just waiting
for you to ascend the judgement seat where you would dismember
ever inch of empire. We knew you would bring some kind of coup,
a regime change, that would set us truly free.

I didn’t understand then, sometimes I still miss the meaning;
but I didn’t take your words into me and only thought this would be
a victory march up to the temple walls.

I wasn’t alone in my over-glossed promise, all the others backed
me up. We thought we could ignite it by some sword-play and
one of us cut off the ear of a palace official. And all you did was
reach up and heal that mercenary.

I wanted to look you in the eyes and see the fire burning that
would consume every adversary of empire that kept us under its thumb.
We only heard the bells ring from another time to announce
the call to vespers and long-robed mendicants praying on
bruised knees.

They took you to the judgement hall, the began to interrogate
you. The stripped you and whipped you and stripped your back
of flesh. And that was when I became afraid.

I watched it all from the outside warming my hands by a
welcome fire. And they thought they recognized me (I wish
I had hidden my eyes) and insisted I knew you. How did they
know? How could they tell?

But it took a young servant girl, a whisp of one, to get me
to curse and deny you full-throated.

And then I heard the crow. I wanted to sink, to melt between
the cement cracks. I wanted to see you, I wanted to tell you
I never meant it, I never wanted to let it come to this.
So I ran and hid. I heaved in silence. I didn’t trust myself with
even the slightest sound for fear I would say the same things
again even in the solitary darkness.

I was afraid I would never see you again, never speak with you
and hear your words that set me free.

I lumbered to the street where the criminals walked carrying
their crosses
on their backs. I waited, not knowing how long before
I would see you once more. When you passed by, I saw your eyes
and I hope you saw mine. I hope you saw the sorrow, the regret,
the self-loathing that led me to admit I was less than I imagined.

I saw your eyes and could not decipher them. Was that disappointment,
sadness, pain? Was that affection hidden behind the tears welling
in your eyes?

I know you, I knew you, and I shall know you more. Dearest
Lord
forgive the mud I found myself rolling in only to
protect my tiny self.

A Dozen Webs

A Dozen Webs

(“Then the King will say to those on his right, ‘Come, you who are blessed by my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world.” Matthew 25:34)

This foggy morning, I spotted a dozen different webs strung from
mailbox to support. The strands were braids of diamonds made by
dew drops hanging still.

You gathered us in the way you usually do, to teach us,
or send us out again for miracles’ sake. But you instead
said we were blessed by the Father, and now we are inheriting
the dream that has been dreamed from the foundation of the world.

Did we feed you when we filled the bellies of the hungry?
Did we give you a drink when your throat was parched?
Did we welcome you, stranger, even if you came from across the boundary?
Did we round up a new suit of clothes when you were naked?
Did we sit by your bed, holding space for you in your illness?
Did we visit you in prison even though the paperwork was tedious?

You told us every time we did any of this that we were doing it to you,
even if they were the least, the smallest, the last in line. We had
no idea it was your mouth we fed, your thirst we quenched, your hope
reignited. We only felt like we were doing what we could for
the suffering in the world.

And you called us the “nations”. Sheep or goats.
And you called us “sheep”
Other nations were goats and did nothing to alleviate
the pain of people trod down by systemic hatred.

It is nations you look to do this, isn’t it?
I acted like an individual, but you long to tear down the
systems that hold people hostage, that call them freeloaders,
that name them illegal, that mock the spectrum of their autism,
and spew invectives at the queer nation that carries Christ too.

In a couple of hours the webs will not shine so brightly;
the dew will evaporate once the fog lifts and the sun shines
on them.
Maybe they are there to remind me that sometimes waiting
is waiting far too long.

My Agenda

My Agenda

I laid my agenda down on my desk and noticed
there was nothing empty there, no plans for the
day.
So I got myself up, hung my body on the hinges and
let it sway with the ebbing and surging of the wind.
I never meant to spend all the daylight there;
I was waiting for someone to notice me and
invite me to town.
That’s when it occurred to me that if I blinked
one time too many I might miss the
Wave of the white-gloved hand that saw me
breathing slow.
I let myself down and wrote in my calendar:
“Tomorrow I will just hang around.”

It Has Been Too Long

It Has Been Too Long

(“God is faithful, by whom you were called into fellowship with his son, Jesus Christ our Lord.” 1 Corinthians 1:9)

It has been too long between steps that
lead to your house. I visited years ago and
still have the memories misting in my mind.
We both grew bolder with age.
What could we talk about that we didn’t
already suspect? Predilections of piety
sometimes shamed our silly expectations
that someone might buy us lunch.
For those who thought it all was certain,
for those who had answers to every question,
we only kept our silence and waited for something
less extreme.
We longed for a baptism that would make the
circle larger. We knew it younger and
wondered how it splintered now.

Do you remember the halcyon days when
pretense
had not yet been learned? Do you call to mind
the ways that finished the days when we walked the
two miles home from school? We took the bus
a couple of times when we were freshmen.
Sometimes we hitched a ride with the girl from
down the block. I think we both fell for her and I
doubt
she remembers either of us now.

It has been too long since we shared a glass of wine
together. We let it breathe. The last time I saw you
a machine was doing the breathing for you and I hope
you know I came to visit you. I muddled my way through
the Lord’s prayer three or four times holding your hand
a day before you left for good.

It has been too long and now only lengthens like
the shadows on an autumn afternoon.

Slowly Leaking

Slowly Leaking

(“You will be righteous, Lord, even if I bring a case against You. Yet, I wish to contend with You: Why does the way of the wicked prosper? Why do all the treacherous live at ease?” Jeremiah 12:1)

When will you let the iron hammer fall on the
plywood boxes of hypocrisy? When will you
lower the boom for the sake of the dying?
It used to bustle along the streets, the avenue
markets
were full of mothers and children.
When will you blow away the smog and smoke
that chokes the tiny lungs of these little ones?
Now the markets are dust and crumble and the
appendages of hope have disintegrated.

When will you judge, when will you answer?
When will you capture them, trapped by their own words?
Why is your timing so slow, so different than mine?
Why have you not destroyed the backroom plans
of the wicked? Why do the billionaires float above
it all like space rats escaping gravity?
Where is the moon on the nights of gloom;
hidden behind the shrapnel that exploded this
afternoon. The day is fading and we
fear the night when the sirens will bid us
to our bunkers and wait to next wave of destruction.

How long will the grass wither, how long until the
healing rains come?
How long until the unrighteous are taken
to task
who hide the truth behind spoiled facets of
sacred words?
Show them what their end will be, but do it
sooner before more are shot down in the streets by
icy masked men hunting for game.

Why do you take your time? Why do you delay?
Why does it take so long for you to drag them
with the dividing line of justice? Hear our petition;
act before we are all taken like a helium balloon
slowly leaking.
Take these words and give us a token,
hear the aches that we have spoken
and turn your face away from them who
pretend to speak for you.

This Groggy Heart

This Groggy Heart

(“If you feel you must brag, then have enough sense to brag about worshiping me, the Lord. What I like best is showing kindness, justice, and mercy to everyone on earth.” Jeremiah 9:24)

You stayed long after every thought had its day.
You were the heaviness of contemplation and the
lightness of hilarity when morning came.
My mind is still stuffed with worries,
my brain with the unease that comes from
dreams filled with inadequacy. I need
you
closer than ever and every moment
when my thoughts stray like neighborhood dogs
on the prowl. I need the kindness that meets me
in the middle of my dirge. I need the laughter that lasts
well beyond the afternoon.

The earth feels old today, long in the tooth and
bearded in gray. It was younger when I walked to
the corner bowling alley and played pinball most
of the afternoon. I thought summer was the
best playground and would never end.
The earth feels stale today, I hate to say it.
For I know it is full of verdant discoveries and
colors of autumn as the leaves depart for the winter.

While I clean out the cobweb thoughts, you remain,
just the same,
and bid me mirror your love at the speed of light.
Can I, quietly and quickly, silence the report of gunfire
and let the drops of rain coax life from this
groggy heart of mine?

Soundproof Panels

Soundproof Panels

(“To whom can I speak and give warning? Who will listen to me? Their ears are closed so they cannot hear. The word of the Lord is offensive to them; they find no pleasure in it.” Jeremiah 6:10)

I know you gave yourself over to ghosts
many years ago. Finally, most of them escaped outside,
but a few remained within. They filled your ears with
consequential thievery. They blocked them from any
scenery that might change your mind and make you ache
for better paragraphs to enter your head.

And why did you swallow those stones that stopped halfway
down your digestive tract to take the place of you heart?
When did you decide to replace your eyes with gray and black
kaleidoscopes.?

You used to sing “Be Thou My Vision” from memory:

    Riches I heed not, nor vain, empty praise.
    Thou mine inheritance, now and always;
    Thou and Thou only first in my heart.
    High King of heaven, my treasure Thou art.

But today you sing a different tune so out of key, so under
spooned. You’ve kept up the masquerade so well that
people still throng to hear your catchphrase wisdom. No one
leaves
without dropping a ten on the box at the front of your door.

What can god say that would turn you round. What could
any of us do to open the blockage of your ears? When did it
seem so right to declare God as “only first in my heart”
while you deny the very song that sets free.

I remember your eyes, ages ago, bright with pleasure at the
thought that god was at work in the world. Now he recruits
you and all is stone and soundproof panels shut up against the
chambers of your heart.

The Visitor

The Visitor

(“Be devoted to each other with mutual affection. Excel at showing respect for each other.” Romans 12:20)

I like the way you glided in under the radar.
You came in peace.
I came outside.
I was grumpy.
You were friendly.

You looked for answers and accepted my
question marks.
All they wanted were receipts to prove my
intentions.
My lethargy was the power of inertia
that held me in pieces on the floor.

My wings were weary; I had flown well
into the night.
I put that candle in the window hoping
that you would see
the fainting flame that called for something
deeper than miserly friendship.

You asked no questions,
you waited for me to talk.
I had run on sentences and nothing really to say.

Did you bring anyone with you or did you
travel alone?
I have been a solitary one ever since
I shared my opinion
once over the limit.

Did you come because the wick was fading;
did you bring a notebook to take notes like a
beat cop might do?
But I see your hands are empty and there is
soup on the stove. Can I serve us a little bowl even
though conversation is limited to weather and sweaters
I haven’t worn in a year?

But you made the effort so perhaps I should offer
something more than broth in a spoon. If you want the
truth,
you’ll need to stay awhile. I’ve uncovered
passages below myself I never knew existed.
I am not the same man you knew
55 years ago.

Caution’s Tale

Caution’s Tale

(“I remember the loyalty of your youth, your love as a bride—how you followed me in the wilderness, in a land not sown.” Jeremiah 2:2b)

I’ve become more cautious, no longer the giddy bride
that was always up for a day in the sun. Today all I can say
is that I’ve hidden myself behind the clouds. But even overcast
I think
you can find my shadows on the ground.
Or did you trace my calls to discover
my secret abode?

I followed through barren and bountiful times.
I assumed I was still lovely, still attracting the
best vows like the ones at first. My confusion came
when other loves of yours started searching for
every member of the family who had ever dropped
off, slowing their stride and veering into unknown pastures.

I could list my reasons for making a cave out of this haze.
I could tell you everything you already know and I still would
not be certain you had heard. Love was all around me to start,
until I slipped twice and more and the only ones knocking on
my door were the ones who picked up the stones I had
dropped along the way.

So, take a picture of me up here behind the clouds;
focus your camera on so much social anxiety that I would
prefer to be hidden this close to the sun.
There was a day I would have taken a chance and called out
the name of someone walking on asphalt below me. Today I
put on my shades and look the other way.

Do you still think of me the same way even though I’ve
hidden myself so far away? Do you want me to empty
myself of every discolored quotation that was served at
my table? I know you allow my doubts, but will you allow
me without the risks I leaped over to prove my worth?

I can’t promise anything and I may still take cover behind
the cumulus and under the sun. I’ll keep my eyes open, though,
and my mind still speaking caution’s tale.

Leaning Off Kilter

Leaning Off Kilter

(“The Lord God has put his Spirit in me, because the Lord has appointed me to tell the good news to the poor.” Isaiah 61:1a)

I was leaning slightly off kilter. The day
started this way.
Cautious and crackling, my morning
dragged on. I heard the words.
I woke to them circling consciously
salting my soul. They floated from the
ancient prophet. They landed in the lap
of peasants and kings. They were the onramp
to the freedom highway. They were at the end
of the map I seldom saw.

I was feeling like some foul weather. The day
continued that way.
But the words propelled me. Sitting still I
nearly flew. I imagined the power that good
stories can bring. Maybe the words would
chase away the fright of midafternoon.
And maybe the evening would arrive richer.
Maybe the pennies I saved could mark the spot
where I heard words first. Maybe the story
would woo me to sleep. Maybe I will dream
of the next adventure along freedom highway.

The Dot My Pencil Made

The Dot My Pencil Made

(“I live in a high and holy place. But I also live with people who are sad and humble. I give new life to those who are humble. I give new life to those whose hearts are broken.” Isaiah 57:15b)

Do you see the dot my pencil made;
Can you see the spot my tears undried?
I jotted down the training notes that taught
me to curtsy like a little girl in the face of
the divine.

Can I tell you a secret; will you hear the words
I display?
I never shouted as loud as the rest of you; I didn’t
think
god was hard of hearing.

But in private I ached, I bent, I tormented myself
into believing I was as alone as the graphite period
at the end of a meandering sentence. In public I made sure
I stayed on my knees at least as long as the
last one to leave.

My diaphragm jackknifed and my lungs hunted air
that was so spare in my unforgiving sadness. I was
suspect the whole time. Depression recruited me stronger
than the hands laid upon my head. The last time
I asked for prayer to take away my blackness

They decided to cast out demons and left their hands
hanging at their sides.

Do you see the laser on the wall;
Can you see the light so tiny it nearly faded?
I called in my reinforced bunker for the help
I craved. And though my tears continued

Like something that, if it had been you,
we might share a beer over consolation that
god had placed you there.