Bright eyes on faded fabric
The still-burning souls of places neglected
As they gather in a heap by the road.
art in the cinderblocks and
cement of the empty city
Life in what is always described as the desolate wasteland of
Some ask-why would you go there?
Media makes it out
But how can we believe that
for we know that God does not leave
God does not forsake
And even when a city is seen as dull
There is life
Life is the
sparks in those bright eyes
Burn a fire too bright, fuel runs out.
Keep an ember alive, it smolders
Ready to be breathed back into life.