Saturday, May 16, 2026

The Cost of Endurance


The Price of Tears


Steel yourself 

be prepared 

there are trying days 

on the horizon 


Sound advice 

it would seem 

life is hard 

then it’s harder 


For all the joy 

life brings 

it can also bring 

a hardness— 

wanted or not 


Sometimes 

that austerity 

sneaks up on you 

without warning 


There are times 

I feel too much 

it overwhelms 

and my heart closes 

in self defense 


No tears 

no weeping 

no crying 

no issuance 

from a stony heart 


You were there 

holding me 

when I forgot 

how to cry 


When the tears 

went missing 

I searched 

for the old pathways— 

the ones grief 

used to walk 

without hesitation 


I found only 

dry riverbeds 

and the faint memory 

of water 


I pressed my fingers 

to my eyes 

as if pressure 

could summon 

what feeling 

no longer knew 

how to deliver 


There is a cost 

to endurance 

no one warns you about— 

the toll booth 

you don’t see 

until you are already 

through it 


And still 

you stayed 

quiet as dusk 

beside me 


Not asking 

for tears 

not asking 

for softness 

only offering 

your presence 

like a hand 

on a locked door 


There are nights 

when the silence inside me 

grows louder 

than any grief 

I can name 


When the absence of tears 

feels heavier 

than the tears ever did


I lie still 

listening 

for the old tremble 

the familiar swell 

the first warm sting 

that used to rise 

without permission 


But nothing comes— 

only the echo 

of a feeling 

I can’t quite reach 


It is strange 

how the body remembers 

what the heart 

no longer practices 


Strange how forgetting 

can feel like failing 

even when it is survival 


And in the quiet 

you breathe beside me 

unhurried 

unafraid 

as if my stillness 

is not a warning 

but a language 

you already know 


You do not ask 

for the flood 

or the breaking 

or the softening 


You simply stay 

long enough 

for me to realize 

that even stone 

is held 

by something 


© Ron Simpson Jr. 


Thursday, May 14, 2026

The Cost of Love

The Price of One Soul 


When Adam and Eve sinned in the garden,
what would we have done?
How would we have reacted?


It would have been easy
to destroy them
and wipe the slate clean.


Easy
to begin again.


The earth already formed,
the heavens stretched out,
the animals created,
the garden planted.


Simply mark it down
as failed experiment number one
and move on to number two.


You say,
“But that would mean
the loss of more than eight billion people.”


No.


That day,
it was only two people
with the potential
of billions more.


A second beginning
could have carried
the same possibility.


And we know ourselves 

well enough to admit
we would scarcely hesitate.


But love—
so great a love—
would not start over.


Instead,
God set redemption into motion.


Blood was shed
to cover shame in the garden,
a covering that pointed forward
through generations,
toward another hill,
another sacrifice,
another shedding of blood—


Calvary.


He formed that hill 

knowing what wood 

would stand upon it 


Before man 

ever reached for 

the forbidden tree 


God 

has already seen 

another tree 


The value of a soul
is measured by the distance
heaven was willing to travel
to redeem it.


The value—

of your soul 


And so great a love 


© Ron Simpson Jr. 

May 14, 2026 


Wednesday, May 06, 2026

The Cost of Missed Connections


The Price of Procrastination


The thoughts are continuous 

All the time, they are coming 


Some are life-changing

earth-shattering

windows-rattling

trains of thought 


Others are innocuous 

just time-fillers


Some fly by


Some linger 

just long enough 

to become 

something more 


And sometimes we wait—

And the thought 

slips from our minds 

because we dilly dally 


It leaves the image

of what we missed 

as a shadow out of sorts 

a reminder 

a nagging shape 


of something missed. 


The cost of missed connections 

The price of procrastination 


As with most procrastinating 

there is no real reason

no compelling excuse 


We simply allowed 

the muse to escape 

undocumented 


It’s late 

It’s early 

I’m busy 

I’m trying to sleep 


All compelling deterrents 


Still— 


The shadow mocks 

the mind seeks for it 

that missed connection


Perhaps it was a word 

or a hidden connection 


There it was before me 

two ideas 

suddenly intricately woven—

and then

gone 


Elusive 

skittering away 


Damn


I’m old 

Thoughts don’t stay 


Whatever 


It was there

begging for recognition 

begging for witness—


But 

I was too hurried to honor it 


Until it was gone 


Then the agony 


It’s like chasing butterflies 


Perhaps this is the agony—

believing the words belonged to me 

when I was only ever 

their conduit 


The muse is not obligated 

to wait for us 

We are servants to the muse—

not the other way around 


Now—

I have written the idea 

captured the basics 


Now go away 

Let me sleep 

Let me work 

In peace 


© Ron Simpson Jr. 

May 6, 2026