The colour of our lives. Poetry celebration faith nature humanity imperfections glory. So, thanks to everyone who visits, likes, comments and follows, even given my sporadic posting habits. The cracks of a poem.

You had to make it so. I still believe from a. Deep dark place of pain. She lays a hand on each post. The tall grasses are hissing against the knees of her jeans. There will be no stopping him, there never has been. Through his pain is the only way home. He told Father Doolan, a weak .