Let's workshop this poem about wishful reliance on divine protection as a means to suppress inner screams of guilt for letting monetary aims put people in harm's way
Sweaty Neighs of the Divine
He bridled pre-departure panic
about renting them his ship
(tilted, overdue for repair),
reminding himself that everything
rests ultimately in God’s hands
and that surely God
would not let evil—natural
evil at least—befall children
without uncontestable reason.
“We need books that affect us like a disaster, that grieve us deeply, like the death of someone we loved more than ourselves, like being banished into forests far from everyone, like a suicide. A book must be the axe for the frozen sea within us.”—Kafka (against the safe-space cancel culture pushed by anti-art bullies, left and right)