A man of considerable intellect once expressed to me, “I am not afraid to die, I just prefer not to.” Never short of repartee, he was a particularly interesting fellow to say the least. Open ears always captivated, unsurprised to his contribution towards profound words spoken, even while circling the drain. Although I’ve never had the pleasure of meeting his kin, one could only imagine the bits of clockwork shared, reflecting upon a lifetime of empiricism and given with warm hands. In affinity, on sorrowful thoughts of my own beloved matron, to the same defective and challenging illness he was not long before taken.

The wife of a sheltered neurotic artist and alleged toper, she did what folk had to do, or at least the ones who gave a shit. Wavering crosswise the burdens of life and all of its inequities, she figured it out. A rest was invariably assured due to that very sacrifice, and somehow magical all the same. Call it a guardian’s intuition, the attentive nurture of our basic continuity; or perhaps its just a raw understanding for the people to whom we belong to.

On the surface of a true essence, that very rose, the one amongst so many thorns, it now sets adrift upon a different kind of poppy. Within the passing rasp of murmurs, the fragile grip of brisk beginnings has begun to slacken. However introduced, never a more impeccable time to just exhale it all and release everything. All rationale may lend ear to those deciphering instances, that of which we question our own faith and morality. Just promise me to lay hindrance upon ever looking back again.

And even now in our darkness hour, as I watched the heavens split above, within that whimsical moment I knew, it would be a better place for having you.