The world that we know,

imperfect and flawed,

is not a place for the weak.

With each gust of wind,

with each bomb that’s dropped,

with each hungry child who cries out for food,

it is churned,

and enraged,

immersed in despair.

Yet in spite of clichés,

dry repartee,

a heightened conviction

of a planet gone mad,

Comes the sunrise,

the sunset,

a rainbow’s bright hues,

woven through mist

by a Heavenly Hand…

An assurance, a promise  

not all will be angst,

not all will fall short,

not all will end in heartache, regret…

That the world we know

imperfect, and flawed

still belongs

to the Master of Love…

Michelle Close Mills ©