Pretty Things

Where do pretty things belong in the world? 

Behind a glass case?

Where it shall ach with restlessness,

Stuck in amber as time flies around it?

Or perhaps it is in the void within our atoms, 

Where only God and space know how to be. 

Or are the pretty things you and I, 

Waiting to throw stones at each other,

from the belief that beauty shields against all ailments?

Put down the stones, love. 

I am only flesh and blood, 

God’s own child, still learning to crawl in this world. 

As a son of the Father, can’t you sympathize with this sentiment?

It is the same amber that traps the both of us, 

The same elements that flow through our veins. 

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