Prose Poems

 THE UNIVERSE WITHOUT A LOGIN You are the universe arguing with the internet— like the homeless standing outside the signal, speaking where no thread is listening. No username. No password. No place to plug in the soul. Your breath rises in the cold like a quiet galaxy, unseen by timelines that scroll past without stopping. You carry whole constellations in a torn blanket, wrap starlight around your shoulders while the city counts clicks instead of names. What is a human voice when the algorithm cannot hear it? What is truth when it has no Wi-Fi? You speak— not in posts, but in presence. Not in comments, but in survival. Your footsteps write on concrete, a language older than code: I am here. I am still here. The internet argues about everything, but not with you. And yet— you are the deeper argument, the one no system can resolve: a life that cannot be buffered, a dignity that cannot be deleted, a universe refusing to disappear.  Steven G. Lee  April 28, 2026 

THE SMALL SCREEN AND THE ENDLESS SKY You are the universe arguing with the internet— infinite breath compressed into a comment box, galaxies folding themselves into a blinking cursor. What is a star to a thread of replies? What is silence to a world that refreshes itself every second, hungry for noise? You carry the weight of oceans in your chest— tides that once answered the moon now answering notifications. Somewhere within you a supernova waits, not to win an argument, but to burn away the need to be right. The internet shouts, loops, fractures, multiplies— a thousand mirrors with no memory of light. But you— you remember. You remember before the signal, before the surge of voices, before the first division of word against word. You are not the argument. You are the space in which it happens. Let the noise collapse into its own gravity. Let the echo exhaust itself. There is a deeper language than reply— a wider field than debate. And there, beyond the scrolling edge of everything, y...

THE UNHEARD ARE NOT UNWORTHY There are voices that never reach the wire— no signal carries them, no screen remembers their shape. They rise like breath in the cold morning air, visible for a moment, then gone without witness. But tell me— did the wind not feel them? Did the sky not hold them for that brief eternity? The world counts sound only when it echoes, measures worth by how far it travels. But there are words that fall straight to the ground like seeds— unapplauded, unrecorded, alive. The unheard are not empty. They are not less. They are not waiting to become real. They are the quiet foundation beneath the shouting surface, the hidden roots that hold the forest upright while no one looks below. A man speaks to himself on a sidewalk at dusk. A woman hums to keep her soul from breaking. A prayer is whispered where no one gathers to agree. Nothing trends. Nothing spreads. Nothing returns to say it mattered. And yet— the earth receives it all. The moment keeps it. Reality does not ...

THE UNHEARD ARE NOT UNWORTHY There are voices that never reach the wire— no signal carries them, no screen remembers their shape. They rise like breath in the cold morning air, visible for a moment, then gone without witness. But tell me— did the wind not feel them? Did the sky not hold them for that brief eternity? The world counts sound only when it echoes, measures worth by how far it travels. But there are words that fall straight to the ground like seeds— unapplauded, unrecorded, alive. The unheard are not empty. They are not less. They are not waiting to become real. They are the quiet foundation beneath the shouting surface, the hidden roots that hold the forest upright while no one looks below. A man speaks to himself on a sidewalk at dusk. A woman hums to keep her soul from breaking. A prayer is whispered where no one gathers to agree. Nothing trends. Nothing spreads. Nothing returns to say it mattered. And yet— the earth receives it all. The moment keeps it. Reality does not ...

 The Universe Without a Login You are the universe arguing with the internet— like the homeless standing outside the signal, speaking where no thread is listening. No username. No password. No place to plug in the soul. Your breath rises in the cold like a quiet galaxy, unseen by timelines that scroll past without stopping. You carry whole constellations in a torn blanket, wrap starlight around your shoulders while the city counts clicks instead of names. What is a human voice when the algorithm cannot hear it? What is truth when it has no Wi-Fi? You speak— not in posts, but in presence. Not in comments, but in survival. Your footsteps write on concrete, a language older than code: I am here. I am still here. The internet argues about everything, but not with you. And yet— you are the deeper argument, the one no system can resolve: a life that cannot be buffered, a dignity that cannot be deleted, a universe refusing to disappear.  Steven G. Lee  April 28, 2026 

The Small Screen and the Endless Sky You are the universe arguing with the internet— infinite breath compressed into a comment box, galaxies folding themselves into a blinking cursor. What is a star to a thread of replies? What is silence to a world that refreshes itself every second, hungry for noise? You carry the weight of oceans in your chest— tides that once answered the moon now answering notifications. Somewhere within you a supernova waits, not to win an argument, but to burn away the need to be right. The internet shouts, loops, fractures, multiplies— a thousand mirrors with no memory of light. But you— you remember. You remember before the signal, before the surge of voices, before the first division of word against word. You are not the argument. You are the space in which it happens. Let the noise collapse into its own gravity. Let the echo exhaust itself. There is a deeper language than reply— a wider field than debate. And there, beyond the scrolling edge of everything, y...

  The Sacred Fracture There is a breaking that does not end you— it tells the truth about what could not hold. The fracture is not failure, but revelation: that the strength you trusted was never meant to carry you. Through the crack, light enters. Through the weakness, Another speaks. What you called collapse becomes the place of meeting. For God does not wait in the unbroken places we defend, but in the opening we cannot repair. And there— in the surrendered fracture— you are not undone, you are found. Steven G. Lee  April 28, 2026 

> LITTLE BY LITTLE, NEARER TO GOD Not in the sudden blaze, not in the rush of heights— but in the quiet keeping of one small step after another. Little by little, the soul turns. Not all at once— for we are not made for instant becoming— but for patient forming, for slow awakenings that root deeper than momentary fire. A word remembered. A prayer whispered. A choice unseen. A kindness given when no one records it. This is the path. Grain by grain, like bread gathered at dawn, like light stretching across the edge of night— so the heart moves toward God. We wanted transformation like thunder— but He gives it like rain. Steady. Persistent. Falling where it is needed until the ground cannot remain the same. Little by little, the noise fades. Little by little, the grip loosens. Little by little, the eyes begin to see. What once pulled us away loses its voice. What once seemed distant draws near. Not because we climbed high, but because we remained— through weakness, through waiting, thr...

 THE BREAD THAT KEEPS US NEAR Not the feast that makes us forget, not the table that numbs the need— but the simple breaking that remembers hunger and calls it holy. Bread— not as abundance, but as nearness. It comes without spectacle, without excess, without the noise of more— just enough to keep the heart awake. Each day it arrives like mercy measured, like grace portioned for a soul that must return again. For if we had everything at once, we might wander— full hands, empty remembrance. But this bread teaches rhythm. It teaches waiting without despair, receiving without grasping, trusting without seeing tomorrow. It is the quiet tether between heaven and dust, the thread that binds need to provision, earth to God. Give us this day— not because You lack abundance, but because we lack remembrance. Keep us near by giving us enough. Enough to hunger again, enough to ask again, enough to know we are not the source of what sustains us. For distance grows where self becomes sufficient,...

THE STRENGTH FOUND IN WEAKNESS There is a breaking that does not destroy— a quiet undoing where the soul is unmade from its illusions of power. We call it weakness because it trembles, because it cannot stand on what it once trusted, because its hands can no longer hold the world together. But heaven calls it an opening. For strength that comes from self must first be emptied— poured out like water on the ground that cannot be gathered again. Only then does another strength enter, not loud, not forceful, but steady as breath, enduring as mercy. “When I am weak…” not a confession of defeat, but a doorway— “…then I am strong.” Not because weakness itself is power, but because it makes room for the power that is not our own. In weakness, the masks fall— the performance ends— the need to appear sufficient finally collapses. And in that collapse, truth stands. You were never meant to carry yourself alone. You were never meant to be your own foundation. So the trembling becomes holy. The fra...

 > THE GRACE OF ENOUGH It does not arrive with thunder, nor announce itself in gold— no trumpet, no spectacle, no crowded table of excess. It comes quietly, like morning light through a thin curtain, like breath you did not earn, yet are given again. Grace— not in having everything, but in discovering you do not need to. Enough is not the world’s applause of fullness, but heaven’s whisper: “You are sustained.” There was a time when more felt like salvation— when the horizon kept moving with every step forward, when desire learned to multiply faster than gratitude. But grace interrupts. It places a boundary around the endless hunger and calls it peace. It gathers the scattered longings and teaches them to rest in a smaller, holier place. Bread for today— not the burden of forever. Strength for this hour— not the illusion of control. And suddenly, what seemed small becomes sufficient. The cup does not overflow— yet it does not run dry. The hands are not filled— yet they are not em...

 > THE FREEDOM OF ENOUGH There is a place where wanting loosens its grip, where the restless hunger finally exhales— not because the world has filled the hands, but because the heart has found its center. Enough is not abundance. It is alignment. It is the quiet knowing that life is not measured by what is gathered, but by what remains when gathering stops. The world runs on more— more speed, more gain, more noise— a river that never arrives, only rushes. But enough is a still place beside the current. It is bread for the day, not the burden of tomorrow. It is water that satisfies without demanding possession. It is the freedom to receive without clutching, to hold without fearing loss, to live without being owned by what is held. For the chains are not always iron— they are often golden, forged in desire, polished by success, tightened by the fear of not having enough. But enough breaks the chain. It tells the soul: You may rest. You are not what you accumulate. You are not wha...

 > DAILY BREAD AGAINST DELUSION Give me not the weight that buries the voice of heaven— nor the hunger that forgets how to hope— but the bread that arrives with the morning mercy. For there is a fullness that empties the soul, a table so crowded it leaves no room for God. Gold can speak softly, silver can sing lullabies— until the heart, rocked into sleep, forgets the Name it once cried out in the night. “Who is the Lord?”— not shouted, but whispered by a life that no longer needs to ask. O the danger of enough when enough becomes a wall, when provision becomes possession, and possession becomes distance. But blessed is the hand that still opens— though little rests within it. Blessed is the soul that still waits— though strength has thinned. For in the breaking of self, there is a widening— and in the emptying, a filling not our own. When I am weak, the silence breaks open— and Another speaks through the cracks of my lack. Daily bread— not a limit, but a lifeline. A rhythm of n...