What comes is not always better than what came before.

Although we like to think as much.

We want to hope.  We want to wish.

Such trinkets of thought.  Such bobbles of belief.

It can only get better.

How often we deceive ourselves with such gibberish.

We run headlong into plagues of the soul just so we can say we had faith, we trusted in something defined by empty promises and delusions painted in our minds, we let a power greater than ourselves take the reins.

Show me the burning bush.

Show me the booming voice in the sky assuring good from the villainy that besets us.

Show me the miracle not defined by a sunrise, by a breath, or by any other mundane act of nature and existence.

Or show me the truth.

Life is vicious, harsh and ghoulish, a specter coming in both day and night that haunts us with cruel mortality and its splendid gifts of suffering and remorse, of regret and sorrow.

Lay upon the altar of despair yet one more infliction, one more vile assault.

So is the veracity of being.

So is the way of things.

What comes is not always better than what came before.

Sometimes it’s worse.

Much worse.