Not choosing birth, we forage for that which blunts its sting. Seeking solace we climb peaks of emotion or wander groping for yesterday's ambrosia. Drunken nights retreat, as sobriety trickles in from the east. Disheveled, in an unforgiving light, we find ourselves aged but no wiser.
Friend. Trust, without evidence other than our friendship, that a covert call to a magnificent flying creature is tied to every act. A regal one, whose melodious song sways innocent ears and whose wings stoke a comforting and consuming flame. Unflinchingly endure. For the unfortunate brave emit from every pore and breath, a call, an invitation to be met. Waiting for it.