We are all strangers in a strange land, longing for home, but not quite knowing what or where home is. We glimpse it sometimes in our dreams, or as we turn a corner, and suddenly there is a strange, sweet familiarity that vanishes almost as soon as it comes…

All will be redeemed in God's fullness of time, all, not just the small portion of the population who have been given the grace to know and accept Christ|Christ. All the strayed and stolen sheep. All the little lost ones.

Poetry, at least the kind I write, is written out of immediate need; it is written out of pain, joy, and experience too great to be borne until it is ordered into words. And then it is written to be shared.

Speaking of ways, pet, by the way, there is such a thing as a tesseract|tesseract.

Just because we don't understand doesn't mean that the explanation doesn't exist.

Suddenly there was a great burst of light through the Darkness. The light spread out and where it touched the Darkness the Darkness disappeared. The light spread until the patch of Dark Thing had vanished, and there was only a gentle shining, and through the shining came the stars, clear and pure.

As the skipping rope hit the pavement, so did the ball. As the rope curved over the head of the jumping child, the child with the ball caught the ball. Down came the ropes. Down came the balls. Over and over again. Up. Down. All in rhythm. All identical. Like the houses. Like the paths. Like the flowers

You're given the form, but you have to write the sonnet yourself. What you say is completely up to you.

Alike and Equal are not the same.