I'm gazing out the sitting room window. Behind me rests a shelf of books.
Each author resides upon his own spine, and out this window their eyes must look.
Their thoughts, each kept so quietly hidden, beneath each cover, upon each leaf;
Their silent banter, their own perceptions – of life and joy and pain and grief.
This window has no convection or tint – nor does it alter the light passing through.
Differing opinions, profound and unique, are fruits that grow from each author's own view.
“See? God loves them!”, claims Rice, “And brings lightness of heart.” “But,”says Van Braght, “remember the price.”
“To serve Him doesn't ensure life's a balm.” “And that”, concludes Golie, “is the cause for our vice”.
I presume there's a parallel to our own existence – since, it seems, no two people agree.
I guess what I most need is not better wording, but to be exchanged with the book next to me...
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