I think about the moments that people deem pivotal,

Humbling, eye-opening, their shortcomings, a blaring reminder,

And how they overcame it all, how they stood tall, 

Even as their spines withered like parched flowers.

 

It feels aspirational to live vicariously 

Through lives that whirl past quicker than an agitated eddy,

But my reckoning has been the privilege I carry with me,

My humbling moments, someone else's luxury.

 

And in those moments, I grapple with my capacity to be a good person 

And if my self-awareness can do enough heavy-lifting

When I look into the mirror whilst choosing to remain in my bubble

And flee from the faintest semblance of hardship.

 

I use political correctness as my yardstick for morality, 

As though mere ideas brand me altruistic,

As though bare-minimum decency should be deemed celebratory, 

As though commodifying benevolence promises prizes to win. 

 

I may not have answers but I've always known

That we've outgrown the need of a God who punishes human beings,

When the parasitic privilege of being cruel and cold

Has laid its eggs inside you and me.

 

But I've also known that God's promise of heaven 

Might just be an outdated carrot-and-stick scheme,

When I've seen the capacity for love, compassion, and strength, 

Build warm nests inside you and me.