Crashbox

Why this elated agony?
Why such sorrowful joy?
Music will forever cause tears to flow.
Is it simply youth and emotion
Or something that delves far deeper into this pierced soul?
Man:
A being with his feet rooted in the soil of this tired earth,
His head lost in the sky,
Forever scanning the clouds.
For beauty?
Nay; belonging.

Sitting in this quiet church I contemplate the Stations.
Outside snow is gently falling:
Falling on the dirty cars, the silent Sunday streets, and my shivering heart.
Many say that happiness is a choice---
I say contentment is a choice,
Sometimes amounting to little more than acceptance
Happiness is a momentary state;
One of many states---
Most of which are to be rejoiced in.
The full scope of our humanity is worth knowing,
If sometimes vicariously.

There is a stirring in the Sacristy
Funny how I hate so much to see the silence go.
Stained-glass glows richly all around me,
Though outside the air is heavy and grey.
Light gleams softly
On the massive sculpted Stations of the Cross on the nearby walls.
A familiar desire to be alone follows in the weary footsteps of my tears.
I shudder; both at the cold, and at the music
That haunts my thoughts.
Interestingly,
The present brooding has no bearing on fortune's recent treatment.
No;
Things are well indeed.
I am neither pensive nor bothered;
Merely wandering a path of joy and sorrow,
Love and sighs;
Too full to speak with this nameless drink; this wine rare and measureless.

Playing softly now,
The organ warms up for Mass.
People on all sides,
Kneeling
Bowing heads
Or raising eyes to heaven;
If only You, Lord, love us,
All will be bearable.
Soon thoughts of barren twigs
And crusted sidewalks will give way
And I will leave my winter pain
For the agony of the Cross.