Accepting of this place.

I am without yearning nor fathoming, nor wishing to change it by my own hand, other than be who I am within my hands.

Still there is the abyss. I stand upon the edge catching a glimpse of all that moves below the surface of everything existance is.

The stongest voice I hear, though silence it my soul does try, remains-

A whisper, a rhyme, a nightingale shrine, the dream from before till tomorrow, the lost puzzle piece, the whole storyline.

I am grateful and peaceful with and for that, and feircly furious on the edges of my maddening mind.



The Anticipation Of Death

Hope is found in anticipation.
Once the anticipated has been met we are left with hope lost.
In this cycle of emerging ourselves in hope for what is or may come and finding ourselves lost upon each roll of the dice when our desires are either met or blocked, it is then we learn to know and face our greatest hope.

Death. Living. Embracing that we are dying, and dying knowing that we lived and live on in all that we anticipated.