Last month's emotional bloodletting was musical. Here is this month's: a paragraph that wants to be a poem when it grows up.

Some violent days the red and rain are all too thunderingly silent, staying stored in Heaven when Earth's ironies are Hellishly blue and clear, spying down on cracked and broken souls that move and labor searching amidst blood for each other to wish wreckage was external, indicating the spiritual state--less existence equals less pain but color is beautiful and cannot be slain (only why won't it rain singing water, rising up to drown unworth?), but grace prevails, the ship sails and souls float, regarding unjustly their inevitability of being, the world a mockery of them and they of it, made now of shimmering sand when floods should rule till penitence dies and comes again in more wrath and less doom, carving channels of whistling light to lands where mirrors give heed to more than sight, and true lenses perceive the matching hue of Heaven and Earth, for the first time: above and below to agree in mirth.