A Sun Behind a Branch

A word written with coal harbors moths between worlds.

Blurred vision, impossible tasks. Lacks. How do I move on?   You, in the atmosphere, ... staring right at me...

  In how many ways does God speak to us?

I lose control all the time, again on the curb, with the clothes on their back, with no place to rest.

Your world. When I tune, everything makes sense.

Neither sweet nor bitter.