Pre-Built
The crows cry out to a sky of bruised violet, As the rhythm of the roof-drip slows to a sigh. He sits by the ash of a fire long silent, With the hollowed-out look of a man about to die. Not in body, but spirit, defeated by the night, While she steps from her room, bathed in the first light. She comes from the bareness, from the mattress and the cross. Having carried his burden, his worry, his loss. The gold of the sun catches the dust in the air. Like shimmering filaments, a presence that’s there. Reassuring and steady, a Thread made of gold, Wrapping round the exhausted, the weary, the cold. She looks at the rafters, the porch, and the door. She speaks with a softness he can’t ignore: "Every house that we stand in was built by a hand. An architect’s vision, a blueprint, there was a plan. And the world, like this house, didn't just rise from the dust. It was built by a Maker in whom we all can trust." He looks at the wood, at the grain and the beam, Waking up slowly fr...
