The dim, weak light only appears beautiful when there is so much darkness surrounding it.
Fluorescence draws the eye to anything other than the light.
We can get so used to it.
We can make ourselves so blind.
But I would rather have a warm soft glow
Than the harsh phosphorescence of cylindrical bulbs
Snapping on strings above and about my head,
And I’d certainly rather have that
Watercolors drip down the white wall you’ve built between us
(at least you cared enough to make it beautiful)
And I only hope my cadence scribbled in Crayola will find it’s way to you.
If God were a man
He would look just like you
Except something tells me not even he could be as handsome.
But, if he dare be,
I’d start to pray again
With your name on the knuckles of my folded hands.