Karen in the Clouds

Karen in the Clouds 

If I had to work the phones for a day—
the endless queue of souls with grievances—
there’s one complaint I’d refuse to take.

The ones who call to say,
“Heaven’s too quiet, too perfect, too still.”

Who want their angels louder,
their harp strings harsher,
their clouds less fluffy,
their eternity less eternal.

Who long for the chaos of living—
the noise, the heartbreak, the mess—
as if paradise needs a soundtrack
to feel less like a prison.

I’d put down the receiver,
refuse to breathe the complaint back into life,
because some wounds are not meant to heal,
some longings not meant to settle.

And if Heaven is a place of peace—
then maybe silence is the loudest answer of all.