For what is death but a promise of a new and more personal Easter for us all, where blooms glean the morning dew in order to shine in all their for the admirers who pass them by.
Seventeen hours. Well, seventeen hours, fifteen minutes and thirty-three seconds, to be precise. No one else would note the time the police knocked at my door or the time I unknowingly said my final farewells. Not one person on the street would even know the police had been there. They arrived like thieves in theContinue reading “Seventeen Hours”
In His arms, he now rests,
free from… (click on image to read)