At tomorrow’s sunrise, I submit to the knife. My faith in the wielding hand has before been tested, and found reward, and the hand capable. But time’s a stream. With it the essence of everything flows in flux. I’m not who I was when last I acquiesced to the skill and demeanor of this healer. And this healer’s endured the impacts of time, to be here now, in this new place.
How’s this all to be held? Only fate ultimately determines what situation will bear presence in this new light of day. Am I wise casting my lot with this evolved reality? Has fate moved favorably through the portal of time? For how can I be sure I shall see again the world on the first of May, year next? I cannot, yet again I’ll close my eyes, to ride the great wheel.
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rob kistner © 2022
Poetry at: dVerse