My work fell well. My screws loosened
with fire; flames licked my roof dry.
Quiet blazes cradled my windows,
wooden walls punched in: splintered pew.
My burnt frames hissed in bliss.
Lifted frame in a sun pillar elevator
His work built perfect; mine joyfully
lost.
Hope unfolded: a thick, divine security
now in “a house not made with hands,
eternal in the heavens” where I reside.
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