A man finds the perfect property on which to build.
Soon his house has garden beautifully tilled.
Satisfied smile never leaves his contended face.
Passersby wistfully think, "Wish I had such a place."
One day, a violent earthquake doles destruction -
All that's left is devasting desolation
Flocking seismologists in chorus opine -
The crestfallen man had built on a fault-line.

The preacher's son is the perfect citizen -
He feeds the poor. He comforts the most downcast denizen.
There is no deserving deed he leaves undone.
Folks wish they had such an angel for a son.
One day . . . the lad runs off with the neighbor's daughter.
From father's averted eyes flow floods of salted water.
Incredulous town folk chitter and chatter -
Each one trumpeting the "truth of the matter"

Is there no connecton between house and son?
Dig beneath the surface and we'll soon see one.
For no bad thing ever happens in a bubble -
There's always underlying cause of trouble
Though many things are hidden from view,
The astute observer will find subtle clue.
As surely as the house was swallowed by the sink hole -
So the angel fell due to fault lines buried in the soul.

Nature's fault lines we mark so as to avoid -
Our inner faults are not so easily destroyed
And no matter how saintly our exterior,
We all have particular flaws interior
Those close to the surface are evident to all.
Those hidden deep though seemingly small,
If left untended, will also take their toll -
Often erupting in sudden quake of the soul.