She looked upon her shaking palm
There were three more tubes of oil
The old toolbox had fallen down
Had been on a shaky table

And she prayed that one more time
With some help she would get it done
Then an angel took her fingers
Helped her choose the deep blue one

It was Michael of the Angels
He could see where she came from
It was Michael of the Angels
That would stop her on the run

shiver and show me
how cold I can be
between these shoulders I keep
all this pain that I see
belongs to ghosts
who may look like me
the wreckage they wrought
you harbor for free
i am not ghosts
they are not me
i am at best
a glorious test
growing unrest
the fire in your breast
parity's victory
may feel sublime
but scales left tipped
topple in time
i am the finger in your fruit
the mole in your mind
i am the death of a myth
your devil quite kind

I have been on the earth for multiple decades
I continue to learn that I know less every year
The things I used to be SURE of
I am now not so sure
I am comforted by faith and little signs I get from my loved ones that have passed on
Even though I know less every year, my wonder at the world grows every year
It’s a trade off between knowledge and wonder
I think it’s called wisdom

Sitting alone again
Under A midnight sky
Stars surround and illuminate
The questions in my mind
Can I judge another
without asking the question why
Why does he walk the way he walks?
And why at times does she cry out,
with a broken sigh?
Are all of his bridges burning
Have her rivers all run dry
A thought for conjecture
To capture within my heart
Maybe I have assumed too much
Can I alone rely
Upon my own intelligence
To judge this man
In his seeming indolence