If you want me meek and humble, craft a world of tedium and sorrow. I will fade to grey, unmarked... Cooled to ash. And you will mourn it. And if you want me a spring's child? Summon the rain, summon the storm. I will dissolve into them. I will find you, and give you a kiss that burns. Or perhaps you've always wanted me beside you in every hue. Laughing and weeping, broken, yet steady as a ship's line. And in a moment, from thunder and fury, becoming a scent so delicate— elusive and bold and perilous, and yours... though often a stranger. If you want me, you must be strong. The strongest there is. Let me rest in your hands, to be a woman, a mother... and yes, a child. In your days, to paint them bright, sometimes grey—forgive me my fractures. With me you will hardly touch Heaven... But please, don't stop walking, wrong or right.
# Road Not To Heaven The road curves away from heaven, bends where the asphalt splits— not the old sermon-smooth path, not the one prayer-wheels turn towards. This road remembers only dust, only the breath of those who walked it, only the weight of stones that nobody blessed. I have seen pilgrims here too, but they were lost, or chosen to be. Their eyes held no light borrowed from scripture, only the strange bright ache of the ordinary. The trees don't bow. The water runs the color of rust and rain, and sometimes a bird calls out in a voice that sounds almost like hunger. If there is grace on this road, it arrives without announcement— in the warmth of a stranger's hand, in the laughter of children who know nothing of salvation, in the way light breaks through clouds without asking permission from God. So I walk here, where heaven is not promised, where the only heaven is this: the road itself, the company of those equally lost, and the stubborn, ordinary miracle that we continue forward, asking no one's leave.
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