Dear God…. you know the voices of many- in urban jungles like this. The concrete stays inflamed. Her heat is without satisfaction. Lonely musicians harp cords into galley- ways.
Afar off the city writes letters to the dead. Why haven’t you come home? Why haven’t we made this place home? Who’s left to shed blood? Whose smiles are forgotten?
Who is now to abide … Tribulation, degradation, violations, so what is…. what is…. alleged convictions of twisted morality, “Our fathers sit on benches” with their submissions in toe…~Krissy (photo taken by my personal camera this past winter)