dark, still, no birds sing.

slowly without ceremony,
sun will creep, small birds,
all that, happens, radio

plays into those moments.

the window is closed,
colder now. autumn is
here,

last evening she read the letter from Joyce.

After an iteration of lying silent,
Slowly breathing
In and out
Enduring a lifetime of suffocation,
Something is seen.
Amongst the ashes of what once existed
And along the edges of the things that used to grow,
Life begins again
A warmth and a green haze that belies
The reckless abandon
Of all that used to be.
The whisper of Hope begins
A hoarse and hollow voice
Folding in on itself
While it echos across the barren wasteland
Of old, storm-worn steps
That lead into the coming days.
I look up
At the ashes that still fall,
Settling at my shredded feet
In piles of gray
And despair.
But Hope's voice grows ever louder
Though it never rises above a mutter,
Weak and worn
From years of oppression.
My eyes land on a single shade of blue
That birthed the emerald Hope
Among the ashes of the past.
And in a swirling maelstrom of ephemeral understanding,
I can now see:
There will be music here again
It may be many an era before its strands
Pluck through the dust
Of the destruction wrought
But there will be music here again.

I stand at the edge of everything.
I have stood here for a while now,
contemplating the change.
If I look down, all I see is an abyss of water.
The waves crash and churn, but I too, am made of the sea.

I decide. I tell you,
I am yours.
Will you take this offer?

It’s not a long way down.
Oh, the water is actually deep.

You scoop me up in your arms. You’re warm.

I’m surprised. You came with me.

You shake your head. You tell me you were already there, waiting for me. Already mine. Decided.

But how?

You wrap yourself around me, radiating heat. You tell me that I’m the author. I know how it ends.

Together I’m the edge; you’re the sea.