In heaven,
the clouds are not always perfect,
they drift uneven, sometimes thin, sometimes thick.
Angels spill their coffee,
and stars don’t always shine in order.
Hell's next door neighbor, forgotten on countertops.
Feathers shed from wings
and fall into awkward silences.

The music isn’t always in harmony—
a guitar string breaks,
the rhythm skips.
Saints argue over the color of the sky,
and prayers overlap,
one rushing to interrupt another.

Even up here,
there are shadows—
the kind that live in cracks of old stories
or the edges of someone’s laugh.
Nothing is simple, nothing is pure,
but it’s all held together
by the soft touch of eternity,
where mess is just another word
for life breathing


© Bobby Priest