Only one shadow under the naked bulb,
A moth debating the taste of light.
In this room, Jesus whispers of simplicity,
A carpenter with no love for nails.
Outside, the world hoards its trinkets,
A magpie\'s nest lined with silver spoons.
But here, in the quiet, less clamors for attention,
And more whispers through the walls.
Possessions, those fickle deities,
Grow thinner with each prayer for less.
The soul, unburdened, swells—
A lung taking its first breath after drowning.
Contentment, that elusive guest,
Arrives unannounced in empty pockets,
And in the hands freed from their grasping,
Finds a place to rest, clear and uncluttered.
Simplicity, the loom on which justice is woven,
The threads, unadorned and strong,
Craft a tapestry where every thread
Is a path home, no matter how worn.