Their Eyes Do Not Shine

What is it like to have chaos as your close companion? What is it like to have it whisper in your ear each morning upon rising? . . . persistent . . . never ending . . . cajoling until rage has thoroughly taken all command.

Look at them. Their eyes do not shine. They walk with a dreadful weight upon their frame, a cloud that follows overhead. All the time. Always on the brink of storm. How wearying . . . I am so glad I'm not an antifa!

I pray, Father, you help these ones who scream and hate and hurt, who are tossed violently by every wave like ships without an anchor. Help them, please, for they are not a happy people.  

Photograph: antifa protests, unknown