Purpose Poem by Lesley Taylor

There is some sort of bittersweet complexity in being real
when you feel the rain touch your cheek
walking coldly along a main street
with the wind freezing a rosy complexion on your face
and forming icicles in your veins
as water makes its way from the tip of your nose
to the solemn grey streets blelow
and you wonder where God is,
If He's dropped with the rain from heaven
or if He; s just turned His back and He's hidden away-
and you stare at the ground
worn stone cracked with age
rivers running in each crevace carrying some broken purpose
and you lose yourself thinking about your own call
and if the ground weren't so wet you'd fall
on your knees and beg for the rain to wash you clean
and clear away all of lifes uncertanties
but instead you walk away.

yet grace keeps falling just the same
grace falls just the same