Grace…
Won’t you submit that the celestia constellate by the vapors of your very bosom?
That the Reality you hate is borne within the structure of your own speech…
…and the sense that underlies it?
That time itself expands and contracts with every waver of your chest?
Just as it does with every flutter of the bees—no less than yourselves?
That your hands bear the keys to the gates of the Heavenly Barricade…
…between justice and Mercy,
equity and Grace,
Just as your carbon places you within the Earthly coordinates…
…from which those keys are made?
The gate is shut to all who chance upon it,
however earnest the whim,
desperate the fancy.
Grace
Finds only those,
Who likewise seek,
Seek,
with Grace.