It comes time to face fear again.
To look into the void of your life,
and question this hole.
Do I have the courage to fill it.
Are you clipper or creator.
What arc of the cycle glides between my feet.
Either destroyer, or breather.
Either mourning veil, or sun burnt smile.
The answer is all of these, of course.
We never left.
Even if we never spoke.
I still hold the faith for hours, for this.
For the life left on pages to be paged through.
I mourn mortality, not frailty.
The intention is act beyond measure.
But I hope more.