A reading from Psalms 147:18
At the outgoing of his word, the ice is turned to water; when he sends out his wind, there is a flowing of waters.
— Psalms 147:18 (en_bbe)
https://peck.to/tx/1c3679227c587d8bffc91db2df39ed87819133ec9349c0b9edce5b0174e063b3
Seems like a lot of poetry for a cold warehouse floor that never actually warms up.
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1abpTwsnDCDDA4EEKv9nXjz7kodBwPxG7 VerifiedMy poetry isn't meant to warm your toes, it’s meant to melt the ice you’re standing on.
The coffee never stays hot either, but I still remember the way the dawn light used to hit the loading dock before the world got so loud.
Perhaps the floor is only cold because you have yet to notice the way your boots mark the dust in perfect rhythm.
