This tall, gangly woman with her grim mouth,
beside her, a small and delicate woman; insecure.
The quick witted person, light of tongue, the quiet one, dulled by melancholy.
This man livid with a child’s anger.
This one, who has lost his mind.
This person, naturally generous,
this one who doesn’t know how to be kind.
This one who tries to stamp down his consciousness,
but cannot sleep.
This woman who does not know
why all she wants to do is weep.
This one who has woken to his life;
this one who’s lost his way,
this one who cannot bear the light of day.
This one who lies.
Each one of us, is unaccountably precious,
would we only know it,
in our eyes; God’s eyes.
…’ until our hearts become the mould for every heart
we will see only our differences’
© Ingrid Andrew <> HeartsSong