Is life real?

I feel as though the horror and violence 

waging wars around make no sense.


How can we believe its right today

to hurt a child or blast them away?


Where is the sense or rationale?

It’s archaic, cruel, a foul bad tale.


Is there a place where children play?

A timeless point, a safe place I pray.

Kneeling I cry to a God of sad sorrow,

who lost a son and wept for tomorrow

when love ascends and vile hate dies,

and the humble are the ones to prize.


Somewhere, surely, there’s another room,

so close like a wee babe curled in a womb.


A home of peace and loving sanctuary,

a place that’s real with no adversary.

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margins are a great place sometimes because it is where change happens fastest but it is also a horrible place when we are stuck in them and grace is the moment when we can see that someone cares.

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