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He's in love with the sound of the rain.
Every time around is a little more pain.
Every time around is a bit less change.
Every time that the sound of the speech is the same,
he's to blame.
He's to blame for everything that once was
but now isn't.
He's convicted of his own cynicism
because it feels like home.
He wasn't built for the road
but he studied it, so
now he listens to the rhythm
of the television
in an inner city kitchen
in a little Christian mission,
saving souls like his own.
Because he knows the hunger
and he knows the fire
and he knows how it feels to reject desire
and if he had another life to live
shit, he'd want to live it
but he'd probably find a dead child
or saint to give it to.
He'd give it to you if you knew him.
You're part of what he loves.
The Spirit speaks through him
and he looks up.
Because he worships the infinite.
That means everything.
He doesn't even hate his own hate.
And as the television
blares out its lies,
and puts some food upon your plate.
Some would call him a saint
but that makes him uncomfortable...
not to say he's to attached to his comfort.
He's loving it.
Whatever "it" might be.
He's not ashamed to say that he's a subject.
Instant gratification gets put off
for long walks and talks with God.
He doesn't pretend to know
why there's so much suffering.
He just serves the food
and goes home and
And when he's done crying,
the anger stops.
There's a blurry world through his own tears.
And in that blurry world, combining everything,
no lies or distinctions interfere.
And he sees it then:
the beauty in the symphony.
Even in our anger and our fear,
we're so beautiful.
This life is so beautiful.
The truth is here
and it's clear.
And he's not blind.
His eyes are open.
He can see all the things that we call "bad".
But it's redefined
and at times its spoken.
He can see and he's free to be