So I feareth this time,
after countless unscathed elusions,
thou shalt be hit in the bullseye of thine instability.
And life shall cease to be what it hath been for thee;
naught shall ever betide the same nor semblance remain.
Thou shalt be thrown from comfort to discomfort,
from known to unknown—order to chaos.

Thou mayest advance henceforth with heroic stride.
Hitherto ameliorate thy flawed character and excess pride.
Or thou mayest sink fathoms beneath the ocean’s floor,
albatross bound to mangled tongue, too bitter to implore.

Didst thou not know?
That no wight be impervious to misfortune?
And so despair?
Giveth thyself a mote of credit Mine untried son,
thou hast always known.

Thou art a child no more.
Void is thy license to lie about thy back on spring days,
heedless of thy wristwatch, harkening to wind-chimes,
daydreaming—building castles on dense blue firmament,
cogitating the phenomenon of mind, body, and soul.

I hath been with thee for eternity.
Watching, waiting.
So dearly proud of thee.
Thou art of distinct variety.
Thou canst see what others canst not see.
And for that, thou art held to greater scrutiny.