Its hard for me to grasp that I might somehow be my fathers equal in any way.
The humiliation I go through/when I think of my past/can only be described as grace./We are created by being destroyed.
I believe one day the distance between myself and God will / disappear.
Should each individual snowflake be held accountable for the avalanche?
Poem in other words may or may not result from inspiration but must (in reader and author alike) produce it--
I basked in you; I loved you, helplessly, with a boundless tongue-tied love. And death doesn't prevent me from loving you. Besides, in my opinion you aren't dead. (I know dead people, and you are not dead.)