traces of your essence
litter my path, well lighting
the way, charging the rebel in me,
knowing I can truly be no other.

only traces, substantial pieces
have been broken down
into traces, the dust of things
of the past. only remains.

the traces illuminate within me
as if they were me, and I know they are.
your words play as the memories
that I choose to stay in
and replay, and cherish.

traces of stuff gets blown around
and I can taste that which has graced
you. that which flowed through you.
it rests my sense of urgency.

the traces seem to be enough
for me to follow, to a greater me.
to a clearer journey, the rebel being
nourished, while the servant doing the work.

the work that must be done.
the work of the angles.
of the ones that guide us, my grandma.
the work of LOVE,
the one that destroys all it creates.
the power of fate, the feeling laughing
creates. just do the work, she says,
whether they laugh or
turn the heads,
do the work.
put together the traces,
they lead only to You.