People who revel in power.
Sinners of the harshest kind.
Often it’s a hurt out of hurt,
but more often than not the lines are blurry.
Ink in a muddied river, a match in a dying fire,
the last word.
I want to reach out to these people.
That maybe there’s something within myself,
that can help me find the words;
or more likely, the path to the words.
That maybe if we can get in touch with grace.
Distant, untainted by the elevated cynic;
and given by whatever you, or I, believe in.
We might be able to transcend this.
The water may flow clear again,
and we might be able to speak.
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